Mireille and Elisa and the White King
by mireille08
Summary: This story, set in 1797, begins with Mireille in Cambridge with Blake and Wordsworth, searching Newton's papers for clues about the formula. She receives a letter from Elisa Bonaparte, inviting her to her wedding. Mireille goes to Elisa's wedding, but the bandits who have taken the White King have followed her there. She also has to face her guilt over killing Marat.
1. Chapter 1

**Mireille and Elisa and the White King**

**Part 1**

**Cambridge, England, April 4, 1797**

As Mireille sat in the library at Cambridge with the poet William Blake, studying the alchemical papers of Sir Isaac Newton, a messenger arrived. "Sorry to disturb you, miss," he said, "but a letter's arrived for you. It's marked 'most urgent.'"

Mireille turned pale and her hands shook as she took the letter. An urgent letter, arriving today, on her twenty-second birthday? It could not be a coincidence. Her voice breaking, she said, "Thank you," and paid the messenger. She became even more alarmed when she saw the handwriting was that of her dear friend Elisa Bonaparte. She hoped nothing was wrong with Elisa. Turning to Blake, she said, "I'm sorry, I must go and read this. It's from Elisa Bonaparte."

Blake raised his sandy-haired head from the paper he was studying and looked at her with his deep brown eyes. "Take all the time you need. I hope it isn't bad news."

"That's what I'm hoping, too. I will return as soon as I can. Have you figured out that equation yet?" She tapped her quill against a particularly difficult equation in Newton's papers. So far Blake had not been able to solve it, and even Mireille, with her mathematical mind, had had no more success than he.

"Not yet. But perhaps I will while you're reading your letter. Please, take your time. But, remember, we're going to celebrate your birthday after we've finished for the day."

"Do you still want to, even if it's bad news?"

"Certainly, unless whatever is in that letter upsets you too much. I'd hate to see that happen, though. Wordsworth has come all the way from London to celebrate with us."

"I know, I would hate to disappoint him. Well, I hope the news isn't too bad, then." But she had her doubts. This Game they were all involved in was too dangerous for that.

Mireille left the book-lined library and stepped into the corridor. She would have liked to go outside and sit under the trees, which were just beginning to leaf out, to read her letter, but when she looked out the window, she saw it was raining, so she sat down on a bench in the corridor, hoping she would not be disturbed. With her palms sweating in spite of the relative cool of the day, she broke the seal and read:

"Marseille, 8 Germinal, Year V."

Mireille scowled as soon as she read the date. Elisa insisted on using the French Revolutionary calendar, even though she knew Mireille disliked it. Here in England, where they used the calendar she had grown up with, she had no use for it at all. She asked herself why she disliked it so much. After all, with her mathematical ability, she had no trouble figuring out the date: March 28, 1797, exactly a week ago. Today, her own birthday, was the 15th of Germinal. She shook her head. April 4 was so significant for her role in the Game, as the Black Queen, since it added up the the magical number 8. The 15th of Germinal didn't mean a thing. But it had to be more than just the meaning of the date. She finally decided that her dislike of the new calendar probably came from the fact that Marat had been one of the deputies in the Convention who developed it. She had killed him before the new calendar came into use, but still, it had been partially Marat's creation. Tears sprang into her eyes the way they always did when she thought of that horrific night, almost four years ago, when she had stabbed Marat in his bathtub to avenge the death of her beloved cousin Valentine at his hands. But she quickly wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. She must not waste time crying over what she had done four years ago, when Elisa had urgent news to tell her now. Mireille continued:

"My dear Mireille,

"I hope this letter finds you well. I timed it to coincide with your birthday, and I hope it does. How is your research with Mr. Blake going? Have you been able to figure out Newton's equations? Is it true he was able to make the Philosopher's Stone? And how is his research related to the Montglane Service? Don't tell me now. Save it for when I see you. I'm sure it is too dangerous to put into a letter, even in code.

"Yes, Mireille, I'm hoping to see you very soon. All my dreams have come true at last, and Napoleon has given his permission for me to marry my beloved Felix Baciocchi. I would love more than anything for you to come to the wedding! We will have a civil ceremony in Marseille on the 12th Floréal,"-the first of May, Mireille translated-"which will probably be too soon for you to attend, since I know how busy you are in Cambridge. And it's a very uninteresting ceremony, anyway, just the two of us and our families standing before a justice of the peace in his office. But the good news is that Napoleon has allowed us to have a real wedding, in a church, on the 27th Prairial,"-the 15th of June-"at my family's villa in Mombello in Lombardy. Don't you agree that it's not a real wedding unless it's done in a church? I'm sure you do. Napoleon disagrees and calls me old-fashioned, and says my mind has been corrupted by the nuns of St.-Cyr, but still, he's allowing us to go through with it. That will give you plenty of time to make your plans. Mombello is a lovely place, on the shores of Lake Maggiore. You will love it! It's not Tuscany, of course, but it's probably the closest to it I'll ever get, unless the pieces' prophecy is right, and I know you believe those things more than I do."

Mireille looked up from the letter for a moment, remembering how the pieces of the Montglane Service-the legendary chess set once owned by Charlemagne-had spoken to her and Elisa in a trance when they'd rescued them from bandits in Marseille almost four years ago. The two pawns Mireille had been holding had argued back and forth about her killing of Marat, the White Pawn calling her a murderer and the Black Pawn saying she had done a brave thing and saved thousands of innocent lives. Elisa had been holding the Black Rook, which had told her her destiny lay in Tuscany, but she would be in great danger there. Elisa had doubted the pieces were truly speaking to them, and dismissed it as a dream. But Mireille was not so sure. Having spent more time than Elisa with the Montglane Service, she knew the terrible power it held, and she could believe that the pieces had the ability to speak to people, and even to see into the future, even though she didn't know how it worked, since, as far as she knew, they never spoke to anyone but her and Elisa. She continued with the letter:

"But, wouldn't you know it, Pauline had to cast a damper on my happiness." Pauline was Elisa's beautiful, flirtatious sister, three years younger than Elisa. The two sisters had never been close, Mireille knew. "She insisted on making it a double wedding. She's marrying an officer named Victor Leclerc, who's not handsome at all, and even shorter than Napoleon. That would mean nothing, of course, if Pauline loved him. But I happen to know she doesn't care two straws for him. All the time they've been engaged, which is not long, she's forced me to write love letters to other men for her, since she's such a poor writer. Remember she asked you to do that when you were staying with us in Marseille, even though she was only thirteen at the time? She's gotten worse and worse over the years. No doubt she'll cuckold him on their wedding night. I'm sure she's doing this because she doesn't want me to be alone at the center of attention. But I know you care for Pauline because she reminds you of your cousin Valentine, so I'm sure you'll be happy for her.

"Napoleon seems happy with his new wife. Why do I say new? They've been married over a year now. But I can't stand her, and neither can anyone else in the family. I'm sure I've told you about her before, but I'll repeat: she's a Creole widow from Martinique, six years older than Napoleon. Her first husband, Alexandre de Beauharnais, was guillotined during the Terror. Napoleon calls her Josephine and insists that everyone else do the same, but her real name is Rose. I've always found her haughty, and she puts on airs. She doesn't like us any more than we like her. Not to mention her two insufferable children, Eugène and Hortense. Eugène is sixteen and a junior officer, and follows Napoleon around like a shadow. I can't stand his constant hero-worship! Napoleon eats it up, of course. Hortense is fourteen, and I probably shouldn't dislike her as much as I do. She's quiet and studious, and she loves music. You'd probably like her very much. But there's something cold and distant about her, and you've never been cold and distant. It's obvious she's very unhappy about her mother's marriage to Napoleon, but she takes it out on his whole family, and doesn't want anything to do with us. She and Caroline go to Citoyenne Campan's boarding school, one of the most prestigious in France, as you know, and they absolutely hate each other. I think there's some blame to be placed on both sides. Caroline also comes across as terribly haughty, even though of course she loves you. She and Louis and Jerome all send their best wishes to you.

"Oh, how I wish Napoleon had married Désirée! But Josephine is rich and gave him an entry into high society, which he thought he needed now that he's a general. A merchant's daughter wouldn't have given him that. But poor Désirée was absolutely devastated when Napoleon deserted her. As much as I love Napoleon, I blame him very much for that. At least she's found a new suitor, General Bernadotte. I hope they will be happy together. And Joseph seems very happy in his marriage to Désirée's sister Julie. I don't know how he really feels about Napoleon taking his place as head of the family-after all, Joseph is the oldest and the place should be his-but he seems to be taking it well.

"Of course, there's one matter I've avoided mentioning so far, but you can guess what it is: poor Lucien. You don't realize how much you've hurt him. All over a silly misunderstanding! And, believe me, it was all a misunderstanding. I've told you that a thousand times already. Why won't you believe me? I was very angry with you at the time, I must admit, but I'm over it now. But Lucien continues to suffer, even though he won't admit it. He has a wife who loves him, but he will never love her as much as he loves you-yes, he still does-and she knows it. She is the sweetest person alive, though, and she wants to see you again. You met her on Corsica when she came to our theatricals, if you remember. She's very fragile, and I worry about her, especially if she has a child. Lucien is very protective of her, even though he doesn't love her. Mireille, I know it will be hard for you to see Lucien again. But don't let it keep you from coming to my wedding! It's the most important thing in the world to me, that you should be there."

Mireille paused in her reading of the letter, her eyes filled with tears, as she remembered what happened between her and Lucien Bonaparte. Her previous adventure with Elisa had ended in the bandits leaving for Corsica to dig up the White King of the Montglane Service-one of the most powerful pieces, and the most evil-from the place in the Bonapartes' garden where she had Elisa had buried it. She had no choice but to tell them where it was, or they would have made it public that she had killed Marat, and they would possibly have killed Lucien. After the bandits set out for Corsica, Lucien promised to follow them and rescue the White King. But things had gone disastrously wrong. Just as Lucien was about to set out, he received an order sending him to the town of Saint-Maximin, near Marseille, to be the head of its Jacobin Club. He had no choice but to accept the position, and so he lost all trace of the bandits and the White King. Mireille was upset to hear that, but that was not what turned her against Lucien. No, what made her very angry was a report she read in the newspaper, that Lucien had changed the town's name to Marathon, "in honor of Marat, the martyr of the Revolution." Mireille had been absolutely livid, of course, and wrote to Elisa, demanding an explanation. Lucien had always told her he hated Marat, and was proud of her for killing him. Had he been lying to her all along? She couldn't help but think so. This, from a man who'd told her he loved her!

Elisa had replied that Mireille had completely misunderstood, and Lucien had named the town in honor of the heroic Greeks at the Battle of Marathon, and it had been nothing to do with Marat. But Mireille couldn't accept that explanation. "Then why did the newspaper say it was in honor of Marat? Did Lucien actually call him a martyr of the Revolution? I want nothing to do with him, and you can tell him that!" she had written, in the code she and Elisa used in their letters, substituting the first letter with the letter eight places up the alphabet, the next letter with the one eight places down the alphabet, then going back to the letter eight places up the alphabet, and so on.

Elisa had replied, "Mireille, it must be a mistake in the newspaper. Believe me, Lucien is the last person in the world, besides yourself, who would be a supporter of Marat."

"Unless he's lying!" Mireille wrote furiously in her next letter. "I will have nothing to do with a man who called Marat a martyr. I have nothing to do with my uncle Jacques-Louis David, as you know, and it's the same with Lucien. And tell him I'm going to England to find Talleyrand."

Elisa's next letter was full of anger, and she told Mireille she had broken Lucien's heart, all because she believed a stupid report in a newspaper that had distorted events. She invited her to come back to Marseille so Lucien could explain things himself. But Mireille refused. She left for England with her baby son Charlot, and his protector Shahin, a Tuareg or "blue man of the desert," called so because of the indigo veil his people wore, which stained their skin blue. When she arrived, she had failed to find Talleyrand-her lover, if only for one night, and Charlot's father-and later learned he had left for America. Mireille thought of following him there, but she had met Blake and Wordsworth and learned from them that Sir Isaac Newton had come very close to solving the formula of the Montglane Service. Blake could help her with getting permission to examine Newton's papers in Cambridge, and he could even study them with her. Mireille was torn at first-in three directions, actually. She could stay in England, she could go to America after Talleyrand, or she could go to Russia, where she believed her beloved Abbess of Montglane, who had been like a mother to her and Valentine, was in great danger. After much thought, she decided to stay in England. At the moment she was trying to make up her mind, she received a letter from the Abbess, which made her believe the danger was not as great as she thought, at least not yet, and she would rather work on solving the formula in England instead of chasing after Talleyrand, when all she knew was that he was in America, but not exactly where. It could take her a long time to find him. And so she had taken Blake up on his offer, and they had spend the next three years in Cambridge, with brief visits to London, but were no closer to finding a solution to the formula. She hadn't realized at first what a vast amount of papers Newton had left behind.

But as soon as Lucien heard Mireille was going to England to look for Talleyrand, he thought she had loved Talleyrand all along and, even if he could explain to her that he was no supporter of Marat, she would never love him. So he had married Christine Boyer, the frail girl who had always loved him. Elisa, although she cared very much for Christine, was furious with Mireille for breaking her brother's heart. It put a terrible strain on their friendship for a few years. But, eventually, Elisa forgave her, and now they were corresponding just as they used to, as the best of friends. The turning point seemed to be Napoleon's abandoning Désirée Clary to marry Josephine. Elisa realized the two women she had hoped to be her sisters-in-law never would be.

Mireille wondered how she'd feel about seeing Lucien again. She wanted to believe Elisa's explanation, that it had all been a misunderstanding. But where did the report come from in the newspaper, that Lucien had called Marat a martyr? That had never been explained to her satisfaction. She was willing to hear what he had to say, though-something she would not have been, four years ago. And now, of course, he was married to another woman. Mireille wasn't sure how she felt about that, either. She knew Christine had loved him, of course, but it hurt to think that, if Lucien truly loved her as Elisa had said, he had married another woman so soon. Or had he never loved her at all? There were so many questions tumbling around in Mireille's mind.

To tell the truth, she didn't know how she felt about any man who told her he loved her. Ever since she killed Marat, there was something numb inside of her, something that kept her from truly loving anyone. No one understood how horrible she felt. Elisa was proud of her, and expected anyone would be, unless they were supporters of Marat, and those were increasingly few after Robespierre had gone to the guillotine. Shahin had tried to comfort her as best he could, but even he didn't understand. He kept telling her that he had killed men in battle, the first time when he was a boy even younger than she, and that he had felt bad at first, but he had learned to live with it, and he expected her to, as well. She had tried-oh, how she had tried!

She put every ounce of her being into her quest to solve the formula of the Montglane Service. But was it really to solve the formula, or to distract her mind from what she had done? Shahin had told her not to think about it any more. What she had done had been heroic-she had rid the world of a monster and saved thousands of innocent lives, including all the nuns of Montglane. On one level, she knew he was right. But she was so repelled by what she had done, she couldn't help how she felt. The truth was, she thought about it every day of her life. And she hated herself. This self-hatred was what was keeping her from truly loving anyone. After all, how could she love anyone when she hated herself? Every time she was about to get close to someone, her secret would rear its ugly head, and she knew that if she was going to be truly close to the other person, she had to let the person know what she had done. But what if they hated her for it? She always expected that people would hate her, if they knew the truth. Of course, Elisa and Shahin still loved her. But both had wanted her, at the very beginning, to kill Marat. She couldn't even be as close to her own son as she would like, she realized in disgust, because she knew he deserved someone better than a murderer for a mother. And she wondered if Charlot, with his second sight, knew what she had done, even though she never talked about it in front of him. Obviously, it didn't matter to him, if he knew. But he was her son, after all. What would someone think, who had not known her before? She was afraid to find out. And this fear was eating her up inside.

Mireille shook her head to rid herself of these thoughts, and continued with the letter. Up until now, the letter had not been in code, but the next part was. Elisa had written, "Now you must be wondering why I marked the letter 'Most urgent.' Of course, it is most urgent to me that you come to my wedding, but I don't mind if everyone else knows that, too. The rest is for no one's eyes but ours. Mireille, I've seen the bandits again. Caragone, the leader, and his two friends, the former Parisian Jacobins Roger and Pierre. Felix and I were walking along the docks of Marseille, when I saw their faces in the distance. I wasn't certain at first that's who it was, but I had my suspicions, and I asked Felix if we could pause in our walk. So we did, and I recognized them. I have no idea if they saw me, of course, but I have to assume the worst. What are they doing back in Marseille? And do they have the White King with them? I have to believe they do. They'd never abandon anything so valuable. I wonder if they'll follow me to Mombello for my wedding. I'm sure they will, if they know I'm on their trail, and they'll bring the White King wherever they go. Mireille, I'm telling you this to make sure to be very careful when you come to Mombello. But, of course, this could also be our chance. I can't come up with a way to take the White King from them on my own, but I'm sure if we put our heads together, we can think of someting. Then we could put the White King away, once and for all, where no one will ever find it and it can no longer do evil.

"But I hate to end with gloomy thoughts. I just wanted you to be aware of the danger. I hope nothing will stop you from coming to my wedding. You don't know how eagerly I'm looking forward to your arrival.

"Yours affectionately,

"Elisa."

Mireille shook her head. Would the danger ever end? But of course it wouldn't. The Game went on eternally, didn't it? But, at least, she knew she and Elisa would find a way to put this particular danger to an end. She had no doubt the bandits had recognized Elisa, and would find a way to get word of her plans and follow her to Mombello. There, she and Elisa would come up with their plan to defeat them. Mireille was looking forward to seeing Elisa again. It had been much too long, and so much had happened, since they had seen each other last. And Lucien? She began to think that it was the self-hatred that had taken possession of her, which had allowed her to believe the worst of him. Perhaps she hadn't been willing to accept Elisa's explanation of Lucien's behavior because she was afraid to become too close to him. Her inability to love, the result of her self-hatred, had ruined Lucien's life, and any chance she might have had of happiness with him. She burst into tears and held her head in her hands for a long time, until she wiped the tears away with her handkerchief. It was too late now for a future with Lucien, she knew, even if she ever recovered the ability to love.

She set those thoughts aside when she noticed the clock in the corridor, which said it was almost time for her and Blake to meet Wordsworth and go out to their favorite pub to celebrate her birthday. She rushed back into the library, where Blake was studying Newton's equation. He looked up when she came in. "Mireille! What is the matter? Obviously that letter contained bad news, as you thought. I am very sorry to hear that. I hope it's not that Elisa is unwell?"

"No, she's quite well. In fact, she couldn't be better. She's getting married in June, and she's written to invite me to the wedding."

"Why, that's wonderful news! Give her my best wishes. You do plan to attend the wedding, of course."

"Yes, even though I know it will interrupt our work."

"Our work can wait until after the wedding. We've worked this long without really finding anything, so we can afford to wait a little longer. But something has upset you, and it's obviously not the news that your best friend is getting married. Of course, if you prefer not to tell me, that is your choice."

"No, I will tell you." At least, as much as she could. "You do know that Lucien Bonaparte is married, and that I have very... mixed feelings.. about it?"

"Yes, I do. I am sorry to hear things did not go as well as expected, between the two of you."

"I will be seeing him again for the first time since this happened, so of course I am very anxious about what we will have to say to each other. But it's not only that. Elisa has seen the bandits who took the White King from the Montglane Service with them. They're back in Marseille. And she has no doubt, and I agree, that they've seen her, too, and will follow her to the wedding. So both our lives could be in danger."

"But, no doubt, you will also see it as a way to defeat them."

"Yes, I do. I only hope our plan, when we come up with it, will succeed."

"I have no doubt it will. I have the greatest confidence in you."

"I hope you're right." Then she looked at the paper with the equation she hadn't figured out how to solve. "Any luck with that equation?"

He shook his head. "No. Did you really expect me to solve it, when you could not? You're the mathematician, after all, even though, as a woman, you are not allowed to earn a degree to show for it."

"I only wish I were. Do you think women will ever be allowed to earn degrees?"

"Not in our lifetimes, certainly. Once, I would have seen nothing wrong with that, but after knowing you, I am beginning to change my mind." He smiled.

"I hope men will begin to change their minds about women earning degrees, even though I agree it's not likely to happen in our lifetimes." She looked at the equation again and frowned. "I almost have it, but it's escaping me. I think I'll copy it down and show it to Charlot. Perhaps he could solve it."

"Charlot? But he's only four years old! How could he possibly solve it if you can't?"

"Charlot is more brilliant than any of us, as I'm sure you realize. I've taught him algebra and geometry, and he surpasses me at it!"

"That is hard to believe."

"It's true, nevertheless." Mireille copied down the equation onto a blank piece of paper and tucked it into her bag. "Are we ready, then?" she asked.

He nodded. "Wordsworth should be waiting for us."

And indeed he was. William Wordsworth was waiting outside the entrance to the library. He and Mireille gave each other a kiss on each cheek in the French manner, as he had learned to do during his years in France. He was five years older than Mireille, tall and lanky, with a handsome face and a hawk-like nose. Over the years, they had developed an affectionate friendship, almost like brother and sister, even though Mireille knew that, at one time, he had hoped to be something more to her. If circumstances had been different, she might have wished that, too, especially after Talleyrand had gone missing and everything was over between her and Lucien Bonaparte. But her cursed self-hatred had gotten in the way, once again.

Mireille didn't know whether Blake and Wordsworth knew she had killed Marat. They might very well know. After all, people in the Game had a way of knowing things that no one else did. But she couldn't be sure. They certainly never let on that they knew. And if they didn't? If she married Wordsworth, she would not be able to keep such a terrible secret from him. What if he rejected her because of it? She shuddered at the thought. She'd rather not know that he knew, than have him know and hate her for it. It never occurred to her that they already knew and were very proud of her. And so, as with Lucien, her inability to truly get close to anyone kept her from having the relationship with Wordsworth that he would have wanted, but she was glad things had settled down into the brother-sister relationship they had now.

When they reached their favorite pub, which was not far from the library, they went into the private room Blake had requested and sat down at the table. They ordered beer and shepherd's pie. When she had first come to England, Mireille had thought she could never get used to English food, and thought it very inferior to French, but she had developed a taste for shepherd's pie. She never would like beer as much as wine, though, and she was glad she had a fine Burgundy at her lodgings.

"Happy Birthday, Mireille!" Blake and Wordsworth raised their beer mugs to her.

"Thank you!" she said.

"I'm sorry Shahin and Charlot couldn't join us," said Wordsworth.

"We're going to have our own celebration at my lodgings. Shahin won't go to pubs because, as you know, his religion forbids the drinking of alcoholic beverages. And Charlot is too little, even though I do allow him to have a drop of wine on special occasions." Then, turning to Wordsworth, she said, "William, I have news of Elisa." And she told him all she had told Blake, of the news in Elisa's letter.

"Congratulations to Elisa on her marriage!" said Wordsworth, and they all raised their beer mugs again. "You will go to the wedding, of course."

"Yes, of course," said Mireille. "But the other news is alarming, isn't it? Those bandits, or at least their leader, Caragone, are members of the White team, and they have one of the most powerful pieces of all. You're my allies in the Game, as well as my friends. Do you have any suggestions on how to get it back?"

"I'm sure you are right, that they will follow Elisa to Mombello," said Wordsworth. "And they know you will go there to attend her wedding. Perhaps you should make the first move."

"Ah, but it's White who always makes the first move."

"The first move of the whole Game, certainly. But this Game has been going on for a long time. I believe it is our-Black's-turn to move. Perhaps you should find out the likeliest place they would hide the White King. Once you know where they're keeping it, I'm sure you and Elisa can figure out a way to get it."

Mireille nodded. "Very good advice, William. And once we have it, we are going to dispose of it."

"Melt it down, you mean? I'm not sure that's wise. That piece is immensely powerful. It will resist any attempt of yours to destroy it, and it could kill you in the process."

"So you, too, believe these pieces have minds of their own?"

"Minds, or spirits. I don't know what you'd call it. But something that animates them, certainly."

"And do you think the same?" Mireille asked Blake.

"I have always thought so, ever since you told me about your and Elisa's experience with them," replied Blake. Mireille had told them as much as she could about how the pieces spoke to her and Elisa in a trance, but without mentioning Marat.

"So the White King will resist any attempt to destroy it. But we could bury it away where no one will ever find it."

Both men nodded. "Yes, that is probably the best idea," said Wordsworth. He raised his beer mug again. "To Mireille and Elisa. May they put the White King to rest once and for all!"

"Hear, hear," said Blake.

"Now, tell me, have you had any success with Newton's papers?" asked Wordsworth.

"Not much," said Mireille. "There's an equation which seems very important, but which has eluded us so far. If I'm right, the answer to it might even tell us whether Newton was able to make the Philosopher's Stone or not."

"And if it eludes you, it will elude anyone, I fear."

"Except, apparently, her four-year-old son," Blake said with a smile.

"Charlot? Really? How could he possibly solve it when you can't?"

"Because he's a genius."

"And you are not?"

Mireille blushed. "I doubt it. He's much more brilliant than me. As I told Blake, I've taught him algebra and geometry, and he's surpassed me at it already. Besides, the mind of a child is clear. It's not cluttered up with all the cares of life, as ours are. He'd be able to see things I've missed. If anyone can figure out this equation, he can."

"Perfectly true. We shall leave it to him, then," said Wordsworth. They went on eating their meal in contentment, then they escorted Mireille back to her lodgings, where they took their leave.

As soon as Mireille entered her lodgings, Charlot ran into her arms. Although he had her red hair, he resembled his father, Talleyrand, more closely, with the same blue eyes and cleft chin, and the same elongated face. Mireille gave him a kiss on each cheek, and said, as she always did when she got back from the library, "Charlot! My little Charlemagne!"

He smiled and hugged her. "_Bonne anniversaire, Maman_!"

"Thank you, Charlot. But remember, we speak English here, for Shahin's sake. How is he going to learn it if he doesn't hear us speaking it?"

"Oh, I forgot," Charlot switched to English. "Happy Birthday, Mama!"

"That's better." Mireille smiled. Her son's English was already as fluent as her own and, unlike her, he did not even speak with an accent.

Shahin, who had been standing nearby and observing them, held out his hands to Mireille and said, in his broken English, "Happy Birthday, Mireille!" His face, which resembled the peregrine falcon for which he was named, usually so expressionless, was lit up with a smile. Although his French was perfect, if accented, his English was rudimentary. At first, when it appeared their visit to England would be short, he had not bothered to learn it, but now that it seemed as though their stay would be more prolonged, Mireille was teaching him the language.

"How did your day go? And how are Blake and Wordsworth?" asked Shahin.

"They are very well, and give you their best wishes. And I have news." She waved Elisa's letter at him. "I got a letter from Elisa."

Shahin's face lit up even more. "Ah, Elisa Bonaparte! Your very dear friend. At least, I hope that is still the case?"

"Yes, things have been much better between us for over a year now. Almost what they were before."  
"I am very glad to hear it. She is an amazing young woman, like all the women of her family. So, how does it go with her?"

"The best news possible. She's getting married in June!"

"Oh, how wonderful. To Monsieur Baciocchi, I hope?"

"Yes, indeed. Napoleon has finally given his permission. And her sister Pauline is getting married, too, so it will be a double wedding."

"And you will go, of course. Where is it to be?"

"At the Bonapartes' villa at Mombello, in Lombardy. We will all go. Elisa says it's a beautiful place."

"We're going to Elisa's wedding, Mama?" asked Charlot, grinning from ear to ear. "And I'll meet her at last?"

"Yes, we will. You will finally get to meet Elisa."

"Wonderful!" Charlot exclaimed.

Shahin nodded. "I have never been to the Italian peninsula before, and I will be very glad to see my friends the Bonapartes again. It has been a long time." But he noticed the shadow over Mireille's face. "But what is wrong? Surely there is no bad news? Ah, perhaps you wish your own wedding to Lucien could have happened at the same time? I know you are upset he is married to another."

"Shahin, I'm so confused about how I feel about him. Once I hated him for the reason I talked about," she glanced at Charlot, not wanting to go into too many details in front of him. "But, from what Elisa says, I misunderstood what happened. I can only hope she's right. I am willing to see him again. Now that he is another woman's husband, there is no danger of our past feelings being renewed."

"But perhaps you wish there were still some hope?"

"I don't know. Honestly, I don't know. And I won't until I go there. But it is not only Lucien. Elisa says she's seen the bandits who have the White King. And she thinks they've seen her, and they will follow her to Mombello."

"Yes, I could sense the danger as soon as I saw that look on your face. But this can be an opportunity, too, could it not? For you to take the White King once and for all?"

"Exactly what I thought."

He nodded. "You and Elisa will face great danger there, but you will be triumphant in the end. I sense it. Al-Kalim agrees, I think." He turned towards Charlot, whom he, and his people, believed to be a long-awaited prophet named Al-Kalim. Charlot nodded in agreement. Whether he was a prophet or not, Mireille knew her son had the second sight, and sometimes used it at inconvenient moments.

"But how did your work with Blake go?" asked Shahin.

"It's very frustrating. We found a formula in Newton's papers that I can't figure out."

"That is a surprise."

"It's one of the most complex formulas I've seen. I think it might be very important, but I can't solve it, whatever I do. But I've copied it out for Charlot. Perhaps he can solve it."

"Oh, can I, Mama?" Charlot asked wth an eager look on his face.

"Certainly. But don't you want to have cake first? And even a drop of wine?"

"Oh, yes!" They sat down at the table and ate the almond cake Shahin had bought earlier that day. Mireille poured herself a glass of Burgundy and put a drop of it in a glass of water for Charlot, while Shahin drank only water.

Mireille felt content after she had finished her cake, and then she showed Charlot the formula she had copied. "Charlot, this is more complex than any formula you have ever seen. Please, take your time with it."

Charlot studied it for a while, then he wrote down numbers with his quill. He paused several times to study the formula, then wrote down more numbers. Shahin kept in the background while Charlot worked. After a while, Charlot looked up. "I think I have it, Mama!"

"You do? So quickly?" Mireille came around the table and threw her arms around him. Then she studied the paper and her eyes lit up in excitement. "Of course! Why didn't I see that in the first place? Charlot, you're a genius! And do you know what this means?" She turned to include Shahin in the conversation. "I think Newton may have made the Philosopher's Stone, after all! Charlot, this is the breakthrough we need. I can't wait to tell Blake tomorrow. But, how did you figure it out? Can you take me through it, step by step?"

"Certainly, Mama." Charlot showed her what he had done to solve the formula.

As soon as she saw what her mistake had been, Mireille slapped herself on the forehead. "Oh, how stupid I've been! I transposed two digits. A beginner's mistake! How could I not have seen that?"

"It happens to everyone, I think, Mama. You are too hard on yourself. And not just about this."

"What do you mean?"

Charlot put down his quill and sighed. "You know perfectly well what I mean. You need to talk about it, Mama."

"About what?" But Mireille had a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her son knew about Marat! Not that she was surprised. After all, she knew his sixth sense told him many things. But to have it confirmed was something else.

"About when you killed Marat, of course."

"How did you know about that?" Anger flashed in Mireille's face, even though she knew she shouldn't be angry with her son. Then she turned on Shahin. "Shahin, did you tell him? After I made you promise not to speak a word of it?"

Shahin shook his head. "I did not say a thing. Al-Kalim knows things the rest of us do not. It is his gift."

Mireille was relieved that Shahin hadn't spoken, at least. "Well, Charlot? How did you find out and how long have you known?"

"I have always known. Ever since you came back to the desert from France."

"But you were a baby then. Only three months old. You couldn't possibly have known anything like that, much less remembered it."

"But I did. Don't ask me how, but I did, through my sixth sense, as you call it."

"So why didn't you say anything before?"

"Because I knew you didn't like to talk about it. But you're wrong there. As I said, you need to talk about it. It's all bottled up inside you, like the genie in Aladdin's magic lamp in the story Shahin was reading to me. Someone needs to rub the lamp to release it. Or it will make you ill."

Mireille's face turned red as a beet, and she snapped, "I will not be lectured to by a child!"

"I am hardly any child."

"Oh, I know. You talk like an adult, you solve formulas I can't solve, you speak English better than me, you have the gift of second sight. Of course you're not just any child." Mireille threw her arms around him, sorry for her outburst. "But this is something I absolutely do not talk about, no matter what. Not even to you. Perhaps, when you're older, things will be different. Now I'm ashamed you even know."

"Why, Mama? You should know I love you. But you never tell me you love me. And I think that's why."

"What do you mean, I never tell you I love you? It's perfectly obvious."

"No, it isn't. You say you're proud of me, when I do something clever. You've said you want to keep me out of danger. But you never say you love me, or anyone else. Not Shahin, either. I don't think you ever told Papa, or Lucien Bonaparte. Or Mr. Wordsworth, either."

Mireille shook her head. Her son was echoing the exact thoughts she'd had earlier, that her self-hatred kept her from loving anyone. But how had he known exactly how she'd been feeling? It must have been his sixth sense again. "I'm sorry, Charlot. I'll say it now. I love you. My wonderful, brilliant, handsome son. I love you!" She held him in her arms. "Even if you know what I did."

"There is no shame in what you did. You're a hero, like the knights who slay the dragons."

"Oh, Charlot, there is a vast difference between what I did and what the heroes of legend did. But I don't want to get into that now. I cannot talk about it."

"Then you will make yourself ill. Talk to Shahin if you don't want to talk to me. If you think I'm too little to understand, which I'm not."

"I've already talked to him, many times. He means well, but it doesn't help."

"How about Mr. Wordsworth?"

"What about him?"

"Talk to him about it. He loves you."

"He might not, if he knew what I did."

"He does know, and he loves you all the more for it."

Mireille was startled. "How do you know that? Charlot, you didn't talk to him, did you?"

"I haven't said a word about it to anyone, I swear. I just know that he knows. And so does Mr. Blake. He's all the prouder of you for it, too."

Mireille shook her head. Her son's sixth sense seemed more like a curse than a gift. Charlot went on, "Please, talk to them."

"I will not. You could be wrong, and they could hate me if they knew. Besides, we still have so much work to do. Your solution of the formula gave me the clue I need. Newton may have made the Philosopher's Stone, but if he did, what did he do with it? Does it still exist? There's so much more we need to know. I'm not going to waste time talking about the most horrible thing I ever did."

"It was not a horrible thing, and you need to talk to someone, if not them. And I like Mr. Wordsworth. I wish you'd marry him, if you can't marry Papa. And I don't know why you can't marry Papa, anyway."

"We've talked about this before. Papa is far away, in America. Even if we could go there, it would take a long time to find him. And I can't marry him because he's a bishop."

"Bishops can get married. They do here."

"English bishops can. French bishops can't."

"Then why can't Papa live here and become an English bishop?"

"It's much more complicated than that. He'd have to change his religion. And so would I. I'd have to change mine if I married Mr. Wordsworth, too. And if Papa changed his religion, he still couldn't be an English bishop. Besides, if he stepped down as a bishop, a French one, I mean, he'd lose all his income. He likes the finer things in life, and he's lose all that."

"He'd give up anything for you, Mama."

Mireille knew her son was probably right. But it was the old curse again: Talleyrand most likely didn't know what she had done, and if she married him, she'd have to tell him. And what if he hated her if he found out? "I don't want to risk it," she said.

"Because you're afraid he'd hate you. He won't."

"I can't be so sure of that."

"Then marry Mr. Wordsworth. I like him. He reads his poetry to me whenever he visits us. You never read to me."

"But I read all the time."

"Only to yourself. Not to me."

And then Mireille realized, to her shame, it was true. She never read to her son. "Well, you're old enough to read to yourself. And you do. I've seen you."

"But I still like being read to. And only Shahin and Mr. Wordsworth ever read to me."

Mireille felt deeply ashamed. She had a wonderful son, and she had neglected him all this time, all because of what she had done four years ago and the feelings associated with it. Even if she could never atone for that, at least she could make things up with her son. "I am so sorry, Charlot. I've been thinking only of myself, all this time. I want to make it up to you, very badly. No, I'm not ready to talk about what I did just yet. But I will read to you." She looked at the clock and realized what time it was.. "Oh, look, it's past your bedtime. Here, I'll come to your bedroom and read to you. Aladdin and the Magic Lamp, was it?"

"No, I'm on Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves now."

"Then I will read that to you."

Mireille noticed Shahin smiling at her as she followed Charlot to his bedroom. She tucked Charlot into bed, then picked up the volume of the Thousand and One Nights that lay on the small bedside table. It was in the original Arabic, but Shahin had taught that language to her and Charlot, so they had no trouble understanding it. She read him the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves until she saw him nod off. "Sleepy?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Have we read enough for tonight?"

"Yes, Mama. You will continue tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow, and as often as you like. Good night, Charlot, my little Charlemagne." She kissed him on the forehead, then they threw their arms around each other. And, for the first time, they were a normal mother and son.

When Mireille was sure Charlot was asleep, she joined Shahin in the parlor. "I'm glad you read to him tonight, Mireille," said Shahin.

"I am, too."

"But he's right, you know. You do need to talk about Marat. It's like a festering wound on your soul. And it's going to get worse and worse the longer you keep it inside."

She shook her head in exasperation. "Shahin, I've talked about it with you so many times. With you and Elisa, both. I'm not going to feel any better."

"Perhaps you've been talking to the wrong people."

"You and Elisa? But you're my closest friends!"

"But, you see, we encouraged you to do it from the very beginning, and we think you're a hero, and don't understand why you don't think so. Now that I think about it, we might have gone about things the wrong way. Perhaps we should have been more understanding of how strongly you feel. Mireille, as I've told you before, you feel things more deeply than most people. I should have known from the beginning that would be the case. Remember when you had a hard time making your mark on the falcon, and, of course, how you've always been afraid of the sight of blood?"

Mireille nodded. "Yes."

"That's a sign that you feel things very deeply. I was never bothered by those things, and, I suspect, neither is Elisa. I told you I've killed men in battle, the first one when I was only a boy."

"I know that."

"And I told you I felt bad at the time, but I got over it. It was either that or be killed myself, after all. I think Elisa's brothers feel the same way. But it's different with you."

"Of course it is." Tears came to Mireille's eyes.

Shahin did something he almost never did. He threw his arms around her and held her for a long time. "Mireille, I should have known. You were so young. Only eighteen, and a very sheltered eighteen at that. Little more than a child. Much too young to go through something like that. I was younger than you, but I was trained as a warrior. I know how if feels different for you. Of course it's affected you all this time. But you have to realize you were right to do what you did."

She shook her head. "No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were. Not only did you avenge Valentine's death, but you saved thousands of innocent lives. Valentine would have done the same, if your roles had been reversed and you had been the one who was killed, and she had been the one who survived."

"She wouldn't have. You didn't know Valentine. She was the kindest person imaginable. She would have been horrified by what I did."

"That's not true. It doesn't matter how kind she was. She would have avenged your death. And, because she was so kind, she would have been the first person in the world to understand why you did what you did, and to comfort you."

"But Valentine wasn't capable of that."

"As Elisa and I have both told you, we're all capable of it, whether we want to admit it or not. Even Valentine. Of course, it takes extreme circumstances for most of us. And, believe me, you were in extreme circumstances. No, what I think you need to do is talk about it to someone you've never talked to about it before. It will relieve a horrible burden from your mind. A burden you're much too young to carry."

"But what if they hate me?"

"I know you're afraid of that. That's why you're keeping it bottled up inside, because you're afraid people will hate you. But the truth is, your real friends will love you no matter what. And if people hate you, they don't deserve to have such a wonderful friend as you."

"But my own uncle turned against me!"

"Jacques-Louis David is a great painter, but he's a weak and cowardly man. What kind of a person continues to support the man who killed his niece? You should have known what kind of a man he was after Valentine was killed."

"I think I always did know. But still, it hurts. And I'm afraid he won't be the only one. Whenever I start to get close to someone, I start wondering what they would think if they knew."

"Mireille, you've always worried too much about what people will think of you. Not just about this."

"But this is the worst possible thing anyone could do!"

"No, it isn't. Mireille, anyone who knows what circumstances you were in, seeing your beloved cousin beheaded before your eyes, will understand why you did what you did. And they won't hate you for it. They'll be very proud of you."

Mireille shook her head. "I don't think so."

"You're afraid to try."

"I suppose I am."

"Then this will haunt you for the rest of your life, and as Charlot said, it will make you ill. It's keeping you from becoming truly close to anyone. Like Lucien Bonaparte. How could you have doubted him? And Talleyrand. And Mr. Wordsworth, too. Mr. Blake and Mr. Wordsworth would be the perfect people to tell. They think the world of you. And Charlot is right. They already know."

"But how?"

"As you've noticed before, we in the Game have a way of knowing things that others do not. We're all pieces on a chessboard, so we can see the other pieces, right? We can see all the moves they make, and which pieces get taken. Unless, of course, their view was blocked by another piece. But, in the case of these two gentlemen, it was not."

Mireille's face turned red with embarrassment. "So, if they know, why haven't they said anything?"

"Because they know you don't want to talk about it. But I think you need to. Mireille, you know they don't hate you. That's perfectly obvious. You will feel so much better once you talk to them."

Mireille shook her head. "I can't. In fact, now I'm afraid of what will happen when I see them again. I think I need to get away from here. I'm glad I'm going to Elisa's wedding. It can't come soon enough."

"Mireille, you can't run away. You have to face your feelings. Talk to them. They will understand everything."

"No, I cannot."

Shahin looked at her with deep sadness in his eyes. "Then you will be ill. In your soul as well as your body."

"I think I deserve to be."

"No. you don't. You deserve a long, fulfilling life. You have so many people who care about you."

"Shahin, I can't talk about this any more. I'm too tired. I'm going to bed."

"Very well. But before you go to sleep, you might want to read some of that bawdy English novel I've seen you reading." Mireille saw a hint of a smile on Shahin's face.

"Do you mean _Tom Jones_?'

"Exactly. I've seen you laugh out loud sometimes when you read it. That's good for you. It keeps your mind off of what's troubling you. But, remember what I said. Your troubles will return, unless you talk to someone."

"I'm not ready."

"I hope you will be soon." And they embraced before Mireille went off to bed.

In her bedroom, she lay back and read _Tom Jones_ for a while. It put her in a better mood, but at the same time she thought of Valentine, and about the opera of _Tom Jones_ by Philidor, the great chess master and composer, which Madame de Stael had taken her and Valentine to see in Paris, when they were still carefree young girls. Before the Terror. Before Marat. Tears came to her eyes once again. Then she thought that, if Valentine were still alive, she would have translated this novel into French for her, and they would have enjoyed it together. Even though Valentine never read, she would have made an exception for this book, Mireille was sure. If only Valentine were still alive! In that moment, Mireille realized Shahin was right, and Valentine would have understood why Mireille had done what she did. She was the one person who could have comforted her. But Valentine was dead, and there was no one, not even her closest friends Elisa and Shahin, who could make her feel better, ever again. She closed her eyes and fell asleep, and had a nightmare about Marat, as she often did. She was used to it by now, and she had hardly ever gotten a whole night's sleep in the four years since she had killed Marat.

When she woke up the next morning, she realized she had forgotten to answer Elisa's letter. Looking at the clock, she saw there was time before breakfast, so she sat down and wrote:

"Cambridge, April 5, 1797.

"(No, I refuse to use the new calendar. I think you know perfectly well why. The old one is good enough for me.)

"My dear Elisa,

"Congratulations to you and Felix on the wonderful news of your upcoming marriage! I know you will be very happy together. It goes without saying that I will attend the wedding. Words cannot say how much I am looking forward to it, and to seeing you again after all these years. May I bring Charlot and Shahin with me? I'm certain you will say yes, but I know I should ask you first. They are both looking forward to seeing you, especially Charlot, who has never met you. Of course I've told him all about you. Congratulations to Pauline and her bridegroom as well.

"As for Lucien, I have such mixed feelings it's hard to express them in a letter. Obviously things can never be as they once were between us. He is another women's husband, after all. I am willing to accept your explanation of his actions, and I am very glad you are no longer angry with me. But I suppose I will never be fully satisfied until I hear from his own mouth what he has to say for himself. It is not that I don't believe you. But is it possible he has deceived you? I know you always want to think the best of him, but I was deeply hurt by what I read in the newspaper. I hope it really is all a misunderstanding. I do want to see him again, if only to hear his explanation, but please understand that is the greatest source of my anxiety about my visit with you and your family."

Mireille wrote the rest of her letter in code:

"My work at Cambridge goes exceedingly well, and I believe I have made a significant breakthrough, or rather, Charlot has. Yes, you read this correctly. As you know, I have been teaching mathematics to Charlot, and he has proven to be a genius. With his child's clear mind, he can see things we cannot. I found a formula in Newton's papers, which Blake and I were unable to solve. Yesterday I copied it down for Charlot, and he solved it. It turns out I made the stupid mistake of transposing two digits. I think this formula is the breakthrough we need. If I am correct, Newton may have made the Philosopher's Stone after all! But, if he did, what did he do with it, and does it still exist? And can we duplicate his work? Those are questions still to be answered.

"I have not seen Blake since Charlot made this breakthrough, and I cannot wait to tell him. But, in a conversation with Shahin last night, I discovered that Blake, as well as Wordsworth and even Charlot, know what I did four years ago. Charlot, of course, still loves me, but he wants me to talk about it with him, which I am not ready to do. I was very upset that Blake and Wordsworth know, and I hope this does not put a damper on my relations with them. You will say they obviously don't hate me. That is exactly what Shahin said last night. But I feel very awkward, knowing that they know.

"So I think you can see with what relief I will take leave of my work in England, even on the verge of a major breakthrough, and join you in Mombello for your wedding. As for the bandits and the White King, I'm sure we can think of what to do once we're together.

"I intend to arrive a week or so before your wedding, if that is not inconvenient. That should give us time to work out a plan. Once again, congratulations to you and Felix, and to Pauline and her bridegroom, and my best wishes to your whole family, including Lucien, providing what you told me is true.

"Yours affectionately,

"Mireille."

When Mireille arrived at the library and saw Blake already there, looking over a stack of papers, she felt butterflies in her stomach. She was afraid to face him, knowing her knew her terrible secret. But she had to tell him about Charlot's discovery. Trying to hide the fear in her face, she exclaimed, "Wonderful news! Charlot has solved the formula." She pulled out the paper to show him.

His eyes lit up like flames as he examined it. "Incredible! Simply incredible! What a genius your son is."

"Indeed. You see what this means, don't you? I believe Newton may have made the Philosopher's Stone, after all! This is what we've been looking for, all this time."

He smiled. "I do believe you're right. The question is, though, what did he do with it? Where is it now?"

"And does it still exist? And can we duplicate what he did?"

"Those are all questions for the future. Naturally I will inform Wordsworth of this discovery. What shall we do next?"

"I suppose we should continue with the papers, and see if there's any indication of what he did with the Philosopher's Stone. Was it able to hold its nature? Or did it dissolve in a few seconds after he made it? And, of course, if it maintained its existence, where did he keep it?"

"Those are all excellent questions, which further research should resolve." His face fell. "But, may I ask, why do you seem so downcast? I thought you would be excited after such a discovery."

"I am very excited, believe me. I am only sad because of other things I do not wish to discuss."

"Ah! I think you may have learned that I know certain things about your past that you'd rather were kept secret. Am I right?"

Mireille felt as if her throat had fallen into the pit of her stomach. She sank down in her chair and put her hands over her face for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, she could just barely squeak out, "Yes."

"I understand why you would not wish to discuss such things. But if you ever do, I am perfectly willing to listen."

"I know that," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I cannot talk about it."

"I see, even though, if I may be so bold as to say, I think it might help you if you did. But I am the last person to force you to speak when you do not want to. I will say, though, that if you change your mind, I am always ready to listen. Also, I think you should know, without getting too much into matters of which you are unwilling to speak, that we live in terrible times. Especially you, with what you went through in Paris during the Terror, and your cousin's tragic death. And terrible times often make people act against their nature. You will, of course, understand my meaning."

Mireille's face had gone as white as a sheet. "Yes, I do."

"People may act against their nature, but that does not change their nature. I cannot say more without your being willing to discuss certain events, but I will say this: Mireille, you are a good person. Anyone who knows you will be sure of that. Except for certain cowardly people like a painter we both know, and their friendship is not worth having, though he is your uncle. If it is because you lost his love that you are not willing to talk about what happened, please realize that his love means nothing. He didn't even love his own niece enough to defend her, after all."

Mireille shook her head, her eyes full of tears. "No, it's not only because of him, even though I was very upset by the way he acted. I just cannot talk about what happened. I'm sorry, but I cannot."

"I understand. But if, at any time, you wish to do so, let me know and I will listen."

Very briefly, she squeezed his hand. "Thank you for your support. I appreciate it very much. In fact, it means more than I can say, that I have not lost your friendship."

"You always had it. You see, Wordsworth and I both knew of these events before we even met you."

"I'm very glad that you did not think badly of me. But I just cannot speak of it now. I don't know if I'll ever be able to. Please, let's just focus on the task at hand, and not spend time on the past."

"I perfectly understand that, as well. We certainly have much work before us. But it might help to proceed with a clear mind."

"My mind is clear, I assure you. I want to know as much as I can about Newton's discovery, before I leave for Elisa's wedding." And they resumed their work on the papers.

The next two months passed quietly. They delved into Newton's papers with renewed enthusiasm, sometimes with Wordsworth's help when he was able to get away from London. But no matter how hard they tried, they could not discover any more about the Philosopher's Stone. It remained just as much of a mystery as it ever was.

And then came the time when Mireille, Shahin, and Charlot took their leave of Blake and Wordsworth. They stood on the docks at Dover, about to board a ship headed to Livorno. From Livorno, they would make their way by carriage to Mombello. Mireille embraced her two English friends. To her delight, Wordsworth gave her a copy of his latest book of poetry.

"The first copy to the fairest lady," he said, his face lit up with a smile. "I will miss you. I hope Elisa's wedding does not keep you away too long. And if, at any time, you wish to discuss certain things with me, I am always ready to listen."

"I know that, and I thank you for it. But I cannot speak of it to anyone. It is enough to know I have your friendship."

"And more, if you wish," he whispered in her ear.

"I know that, too. But I have much to think about, as you know. For now, I hope friendship will be enough."

"Certainly it is." And they embraced once more.

Then she turned to Blake. "Thank you for all your friendship and support. I only wish we had progressed more in our research before now."

"I will continue looking in your absence, even though I doubt I can find much without you. And I will, of course, inform you of any discovery I make. I will echo Wordsworth's wishes that you may return soon."

"As soon as I can. As you know, there is more than Elisa's wedding that brings me to Mombello. But I hope that matter will be resolved to all our satisfaction, and I can come back here soon. Until then, farewell!"

They waved to each other, and then Mireille, Shahin, and Charlot turned to board the ship.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

**Mombello, Lombardy, June 8, 1797**

The voyage to Livorno had been relatively uneventful. The seas were smooth, and, to Mireille's great relief, she had not been seasick. She had suffered from seasickness at times, especially on her journey to Corsica when, although she had not yet known it, she was pregnant with Charlot. On this voyage, Mireille and Shahin took turns reading to Charlot from the Thousand and One Nights, and Mireille taught them both Italian. Charlot picked up the language remarkably quickly, as he always did. He had inherited Mireille's gift for languages, but even more so. By the end of the voyage, he did not even speak with an accent. But Shahin struggled, and by the time they arrived in Livorno, he could only speak a few broken phrases.

Their journey overland from Livorno was also quite uneventful, much to their relief, because of the danger from bandits on the roads in Italy. Mireille had no doubt that the particular bandits who were their enemies-Caragone and his friends Roger and Pierre-were already hiding out near Mombello. She and Shahin went armed at all times, Shahin with his dagger and Mireille with the knife with which she had killed Marat. Charlotte Corday had brought it to her in her cell in the Conciergerie when she had traded places with her, and Mireille had worn it strapped to her leg ever since, as a sign of her guilt. She thought of an unpublished poem that Wordsworth had shown her, by his friend Coleridge, about an ancient mariner who had shot an albatross and was forced to wear it around his neck as a sign of his guilt. She had loved the poem, and had told Wordsworth to tell his friend to have it published as soon as possible. Now she called the knife her albatross. But she knew she also needed it to defend herself. She only hoped she would not have to kill anyone, ever again. She did not think she could, but then, she had not thought so the first time, either.

During the journey, whenever they stopped at an inn for the night, Mireille had to pose as a young widow, since that was the only explanation of why she had a son, and no husband, which would seem respectable to the innkeepers. They had no reason not to believe her. There were many young widows because of the war, after all. Shahin was always treated as Mireille's servant, and Mireille noticed that Shahin, normally such a proud man, didn't seem to mind.

And then, when they reached the inn that was their final stop before Mombello, they received a very welcome surprise. As soon as their carriage stopped, Elisa came running toward them. "Mireille!" she shouted, her face lit up like a lantern.

"Elisa!" shouted Mireille. And the two girls embraced and clung to each other for a long time. "Oh, Elisa, how I've missed you!"

"And I have missed you, too," Elisa said with a huge smile. "I'm sure you didn't expect me to meet you here, did you?"

"Of course not. What a wonderful surprise! Is anyone else with you?"

"No, I came alone-well, with the coachman, of course-just so we could talk on the way to Mombello, before you're overwhelmed by my family."

"A very good idea, even though I am certainly looking forward to seeing your family again.." Then Mireille lowered her voice. "Except I'm not sure about Lucien."

"I know what you mean. But everything will be explained soon, and I assure you, Lucien still loves you, even though he's married to another. But his wife Christine is the sweetest person. You know that. You've met her before. She knows the whole situation, and she is looking forward to seeing you in spite of everything."

"A very forgiving woman, then."

Elisa's face fell. "But I'm afraid she might not be much longer for this world. She is with child, and she's so frail, we're all afraid she might not survive."

Meanwhile, Charlot was scampering around, staring at this young woman his mother was talking to, while Shahin tried to restrain him. Mireille smiled at him. "Elisa," she said, "please allow me to introduce you to my son Charlot, and Shahin, his protector. Shahin, Charlot, this is my dear friend Elisa Bonaparte."

Elisa gave Shahin and Charlot each a kiss on both cheeks. "I am so happy to meet you both. My mother has always spoken so highly of you, Shahin, and of course, Mireille has told me so much about both of you. In fact, Charlot, I've brought you something." And she handed Charlot a sweetmeat.

"Thank you!" Charlot exclaimed. "Maman has told us so much about you, too."

"Why, he sounds like a little adult," said Elisa.

"He is." Mireille smiled.

"We'll have plenty of time to talk later," Elisa said to Shahin and Charlot. "But do you mind if Mireille comes with me in my carriage? We have so much to talk about."

"Of course not," said Shahin. And so Shahin and Charlot got into their carriage and Mireille got into Elisa's.

"Now let me look at you," Elisa said to Mireille as the coachman cracked the whip and they drove off. "You're looking very pale and thin, I must say. I suppose that horrible English food doesn't agree with you."

"Actually, I've come to like it better than I thought at first, even though I'll always prefer French. No, it's only that I've had many cares on my mind, as usual. But let me look at you. You look just the same, only much happier, as of course you should be." Elisa did, indeed, look very much the same as she had the last time they'd seen each other four years ago: short, with dark chestnut hair and blue-gray eyes. Her cheeks were rosy with health and happiness, which Mireille was glad to see: Elisa had often suffered from ill-health. Being in love had done her a great deal of good.

"And how have things been going in England, besides your learning to like their awful food? And, let me guess, have you managed to find happiness with a certain young poet you keep mentioning in your letters?"

"Well, as I mentioned in my last letter, I think we've made a great discovery, even though I'm not sure what it means just yet," and she told her about Charlot's solution of Newton's equation, and how it meant Newton might have made the Philosopher's Stone. "But we haven't found anything since then. No sign of what Newton might have done with the Philosopher's Stone, or even if it kept its form, or if it dissolved as soon as he made it. Blake and Wordsworth, of course, are going to continue the work in my absence."

"That is very exciting, even though I know it's frustrating not to be able to find anything more. Will you be able to duplicate Newton's work?"

"That's another question. We're certainly going to try, but I don't know how much success we'll have."

"But I've noticed you haven't said anything more about yourself and Wordsworth."

"Oh, we're just friends."

"I sensed something more." Elisa smiled. "Mireille, you know I wanted you to marry Lucien, but now that that's impossible, I'd love to see you happy with another man."

"Well, at one time there might have been something more. And there probably still could be. He wants it so, I know it. The problem is me. Oh, Elisa," Mireille said as tears came to her eyes, "I'm afraid I've been unable to truly love anyone since I killed Marat. I've felt numb inside. That's what's keeping me from loving Wordsworth, and I admit it's what kept me from loving Lucien enough to marry him, even though I do want an explanation of that newspaper report. Certainly, now that I think about it, that's why I believed that report at the time. I was afraid to love him. I know you're so much in love, you won't understand, but that's how I feel."

Elisa put an arm around Mireille's shoulders. "Oh, Mireille, after four years, you're still upset about that?"

"More than upset. I hate myself. And that's why I feel like I can't love anyone."

Elisa stroked Mireille's hair and said, "Mireille, you have absolutely no reason to hate yourself. How many times have I told you, you're a hero?"

"I don't feel like a hero. I feel like a murderer."

"You're not a murderer. Not in your true nature. Please put that thought out of your mind, that you're a bad person. If you were a bad person, you wouldn't be feeling this way. And don't you realize you've saved thousands of innocent lives? As I've told you many times."

"I do realize that. But I'd give anything not to have done it."

"You don't mean that. Would you rather that Marat were still alive? The Terror would have been even worse than it was. It could still be going on!"

"He would have died of his disease anyway."

"Possibly, but we don't know that for certain. Even if he'd lived just a little while longer, think how many more people would have gone to the guillotine. And think what he would have done with the Montglane Service. He had eight pieces in his hands. He could have figured out much of the formula. And then can you imagine what would have happened? Even if you're right, and he would have died anyway, think what damage he could have done in a short time."

Mireille sighed. "I know that. Everything you're telling me is right. But I can't help how I feel. And this self-hatred is eating me up inside. And, besides that, I just found out that practically everyone in the Game knows I killed Marat." She hung her head.

"What's wrong with that? I'm sure they're all very proud of you. Blake and Wordsworth know?"

"Yes. Even Charlot. He's known all along, through his sixth sense."

"And my whole family knows, too. But you knew that four years ago."

"What about Napoleon's wife and her children? And Lucien's wife, and Pauline's bridegroom? They weren't there four years ago."

"They know, too. In fact, I've told them."

"Elisa!" Mireille's face turned red as a beet. "You and your loose tongue, once again! I told you not to say a word to anyone!"

"But they're my family, even if I don't like Napoleon's wife and her children. I'm sure you will. Everyone in the family loves you. They're all extremely proud of you and think you're a great hero. What about Blake and Wordsworth?"

"They think the same, I have to admit."

"You see? We all think you've done a heroic thing. There is absolutely no reason to hate yourself. Please, put it out of your mind."

"That's impossible. Shahin keeps saying I need to talk about it."

"Perhaps you do. Obviously you can't get it out of your mind."

"But I can't talk about it, except to you and Shahin. I'm afraid people will hate me."

Elisa rolled her eyes. "Mireille, for someone so brilliant, you really don't use your head! You know all these people know about it, and they don't hate you. So why are you afraid to talk about it?"

"Actually, there is someone who hates me. My own uncle! Or have you forgotten? He turned against me, and he painted Marat as a saint."

"Jacques-Louis David is a coward. I've told you that before. He's not worth thinking about."

"But he's my only relative, except for Charlot, of course."

"If he couldn't stand by you, his love isn't worth having. Mireille, he made a saint of the man who murdered Valentine! His own niece! What kind of a man is he, if he can do that?"

Mireille nodded. "I've heard that before. But still, it hurts."

"I know it does." Elisa gave Mireille's hand a squeeze. "That's probably where your fear is coming from, isn't it? From your uncle's betrayal. But he was the only one. Everyone else still loves you. So why not talk about it? I'm sure if they knew all the details, they'd think even better of you. Because it really was not your fault at all."

"Yes, it was."

"Only you think so. Believe me, no one is going to hate you. And it will help you to be able to talk about it."

Mireille shuddered, in spite of the heat of the day. "Probably it's because I'm still so horrified by what I've done, I can't take it all in."

"That's exactly why it will help to talk about it. Trust me, we'll all understand."

"I'm not ready."

"Will you ever be? It's been four years! You should be ready to talk about it by now. I think you'll feel so much better once you do."

"I just can't. But being with you helps, I think."

"I'm very glad to hear you say so!" Elisa smiled. But then slowly a shadow crept across her face. "Mireille, there's something I wanted to ask you about, now that we're alone, and it's a very delicate topic. I hope you don't mind my asking."

"What is it?"

"As you know, officially I'm married. Felix and I went through the civil ceremony at the justice of the peace's office. But I don't feel married. I won't until we have the ceremony in the church. Don't you feel the same way?"

"Of course."

"I thought so. Anyway, what I mean to say is, I've put off the... wedding night... until then. Felix wasn't happy about that. He wanted to go through with it the night after the civil ceremony. He understood when I explained things, but still, I could tell he was unhappy. Mireille, do you think I was right?"

"Yes, if you believe strongly in waiting until after you feel married. And I know you do."

"Thank you! But it's more than that. Mireille, I have to admit I'm afraid of... what happens between men and women. That's really why I put it off. But I won't be able to do that any longer after the wedding in the church. Do you think you could tell me what it's like? Is it really very painful?"

"I've told you before, I hardly remember my night with Talleyrand. It was so soon after Valentine's death, I felt like I was in a trance."

"That was your only time?"

"Yes. There's only been one time."

"So you and Wordsworth don't..."

"Certainly not, even though I'm sure he would like to."

"But do you remember anything at all about that night? You must remember if it was very painful."

Mireille sighed. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to remember. "Yes, I'm sorry to say, I remember feeling a sharp pain. But it was over very soon, and after that I enjoyed it very much. But there was one thing... I don't know if I should say this, because I've never told anyone else, and I hope you don't think any the less of me for it. But you're my dearest friend, and I don't want to have any secrets from you. You see, right after we... came together... that night, Talleyrand called out Valentine's name instead of my own. And I let him. You see, I wanted things to be as if Valentine were still alive. She would have shared his bed, if she'd lived. I felt I was taking her place, so just for that moment it would seem as if she were still alive." Tears started flowing down her cheeks. Her voice breaking, she continued, "Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do." Elisa wiped away Mireille's tears with her handkerchief. "You were so devastated by her death, you wanted things to be as if she were alive. So Talleyrand didn't really love you? He loved Valentine?"

"No, he did love me. He told me so afterwards. But, I'm sorry, I can't remember any more than that. I'm afraid I'm not exactly the right person to ask about those things. But I can say the pain doesn't last long, if that's what you're afraid of. No, Elisa, the most wonderful thing that came out of that night was Charlot."

"Certainly so," Elisa said with a smile.

"Have you tried asking your mother?"

"No, she's so intimidating. I'm afraid to ask her. I've asked Pauline, but all she does is tease me and say I'll find out."

"Do you mean Pauline has already started...?"

"Yes, and with several different men, none of them her bridegroom. And some of them will be coming to the wedding. I was not teasing when I said she'd probably cuckold him on the wedding night. You see, that's why Napoleon decided to marry her off. She was becoming an embarrassment to the family."

"Is she with child, may I ask?"

"Not that I know of, even though Napoleon knew it was only a matter of time until she would be, the way she was carrying on. So he arranged her marriage to Victor, a friend of his and a respectable man. But, as I said in my letter, she doesn't care two straws for him. But she's crazy about Napoleon and would do anything to please him. Then she insisted on making it a double wedding, of course, so I wouldn't have all the attention to myself."

"And what do you think of her bridegroom?"

"Not much, I must say. He's a good man, as far as it goes, but too subservient to Napoleon. He's the type who will put up with his wife's affairs, too. Not a strong character at all. But she's gotten herself into this situation, so what can I do? Anyway, she won't tell me a thing about the relations between men and women."

"Well, all I can say is, it feels good once you get past the pain at first. And you and Felix love each other. I'm sure there's nothing for you to be afraid of."

Elisa smiled. "I'm glad to hear you say so. Now let's talk about other things, shall we? Have you read anything good lately?"

"Yes! In fact, I read the most wonderful novel. I've been meaning to tell you about it. It's called _Tom Jones_ by Henry Fielding, and it's the story of a foundling, an illegitimate child." And she began telling Elisa the story.

"Oh, yes, I've heard of that novel. Didn't the chess master Philidor write an opera based on it?"

"Yes." Mireille's face fell. "That's the only thing about it that makes me sad. Valentine and I went to see that opera in Paris, with Madame de Stael, before the Terror. So I kept thinking of Valentine when I was reading the book. But it was so funny, I couldn't keep myself from laughing. I'm sure Valentine would have understood."

"She certainly would."

"I wish I had time to translate it into French for you. I think you would love it."

"Actually, I think it has already been translated into French. I will look for it. But I'm so glad you were able to read it in English. I wish I had your gift for languages." And they talked about various books they had read, all the way to Mombello. Mireille relaxed and, for a while, her thoughts turned away from Marat, as Elisa had hoped they would.

Just before they reached Mombello, Mireille asked, "And what's going on with the bandits?"

"I've seen them. They were lurking in the bushes around the villa the other night. I think they're waiting for you to get here, before they make their move."

"I think you're right. What do you think they'll do? Disturb the wedding?"

"Nothing so obvious as that. I'm afraid they might try to lure me away before the wedding, hoping it will never take place."

"Then I will go after them. You'll have your wedding, no matter what."

"Mireille, I'm not going to let you go after them without me. You know that."

"I have Shahin to protect me."

"I promised to help you defeat them, whatever it took, and I will do that. We're all in this together. And the more of us there are, the more likely we are to defeat them."

Mireille nodded. "Yes, we'll defeat them. But we need to know where they're staying. Where they've taken the White King." Then her face lit up. "I know! Charlot can be our lookout. No one suspects a child, even such an unusual child as he is. He can see where they go, and report back."

"An excellent idea! But they won't harm him, will they?"

"I don't think even they will harm a child."

"I hope you're right." And then the carriage drove up to the Bonapartes' villa at Mombello. The place was beautiful. The villa, which looked light and airy, was perched on top of a cliff that towered above the waters of Lake Maggiore, which were sparkling in the bright sunlight. The lake was surrounded by tall cliffs, and made an ideal setting for a secluded villa-or for a bandits' hideout.

As soon as they arrived, Mireille found herself embraced on all sides as the Bonapartes, one by one, came to greet her. First of all came Napoleon, looking splendid in his uniform as commander-in-chief of the Army of Italy. Although much had happened since Mireille had last seen him-he had been a young officer then, and now he was one of France's most prominent generals-he treated Mireille the same as ever, almost like an older brother to a dearly-loved sister. They kissed each other on both cheeks, and Mireille congratulated him on his marriage, even though it had taken place over a year ago. He introduced her to his wife and stepchildren. "Mireille, meet my wife Josephine, and her children Eugène and Hortense," he said. "My dearest Josephine, this is Mireille de Remy, who, as you know, is almost like another sister to me."

"Mireille! Napoleon has told me so much about you," Josephine said in a warm, melodious voice. Mireille saw she was obviously older than Napoleon, and certainly not beautiful. But she had a presence that made her appear the most important woman in any company, and she was very elegantly and fashionably dressed. Mireille noticed she did not show her teeth when she smiled. Elisa had told her in one of her letters that Josephine was always trying to hide her bad teeth. "I am so happy to meet you at last," she continued. Mireille did not notice any haughtiness in her manner, but of course Elisa's letters came from her own, hardly objective, point of view.

"I am very glad to meet you as well," said Mireille. "I've heard much about you."

"None of it positive, I'm sure," said Joesphine, looking at Elisa. "But we will have time to talk later."

Then Mireille greeted Josephine's children Eugène and Hortense. Eugène, at sixteen, wore the uniform of a junior officer. He stayed close by Napoleon's side, and he wore his hair the same way as Napoleon. In fact, there was such a resemblance between them that, if Mireille hadn't known it was impossible given their ages, she would have taken him for Napoleon's son. She knew Eugène was trying to make himself look as much like Napoleon as possible. He greeted her warmly, and said he'd heard what a hero she was. She felt terribly embarrassed. Then Hortense, a girl of fourteen, greeted her shyly. She had her mother's coloring and her face bore a great resemblance to Josephine's, but she moved awkwardly, without her mother's grace, and shrank back from strangers instead of greeting them with Josephine's warmth. Mireille remembered what Elisa had said, about Hortense being cold and distant. But Mireille noticed a slight smile on Hortense's face as they gave each other a kiss on both cheeks.

"I am glad to meet you, Hortense," said Mireille. To draw her out a little, she said, "Elisa tells me you love music."

Hortense's face lit up at last. "Yes! I love to play the harpsichord more than anything else. Do you play?"

Mireille shook her head. "Not much, and very badly, I'm sorry to say. But I do love to listen to music. Perhaps you will play for me sometime?"

"I would be very glad to," said Hortens with a smile on her face.

Elisa took Mireille aside and whispered. "I see you're working your magic on my family, as always."

And then Mireille felt a pair of strong arms around her neck. It was Letizia Bonaparte, the diminutive but formidable mother of Napoleon, Elisa, and their siblings. "Mireille, my dear!" she said. "It's been far too long. And how has England been treating you?" She noticed how thin Mireille was and said, "Not well, I fear. Well, we will do something about that. We have plenty of food here. We'll have a feast tonight to welcome you, and of course we will have a splendid wedding banquet." Then Letizia noticed Shahin and greeted her old friend, and Mireille introduced her to Charlot. After they greeted each other, Mireille introduced Shahin and Charlot to the other Bonapartes.

Most of the family was there: Joseph and his wife Julie, Louis, Pauline and her bridegroom Victor Leclerc, fifteen-year-old Caroline, and thirteen-year-old Jerome. The two youngest were especially happy to see her, and Jerome greeted her with, "Mireille the dragon-slayer!" She felt terribly embarrassed, but didn't say anything to correct him. Ever since she had killed Marat, Mireille had been a hero to the two youngest children. To their way of thinking, things were simple enough: she had rid the world of a monster. There were no two sides about it. Much the way Charlot thought, Mireille realized.

Caroline whispered in Mireille's ear, "Guess what! I'm in love."

Mireille smiled. "I'm not surprised." Caroline was fifteen, and very beautiful, after all.

"You're not going to like his name, though."

"And why not? What do I care about his name, if you love him?"

"His name is Joachim Murat. He's an officer in Napoleon's army. I know his name is very similar to Marat, so that's why you're not going to like it. But he's handsome and kind, and not like Marat at all."

"If you love him, I don't care if his name is similar to Marat's, and I know you'd never love a man like Marat. Is he here, then?"

"No, I wish he could have come for the wedding, but he's on assignment with the army. I think the real reason is that Napoleon wants to keep him away from me, though. You see, he doesn't approve. He wants me to make a grand marriage."

"He wanted the same for Elisa, but he let her marry Felix in the end. I'm sure he will do the same for you. And where is Felix? I haven't seen him."

Caroline giggled and nodded in Elisa's direction. She and Felix were locked in an embrace, as they had been this whole time. As Mireille came over to them, Felix greeted her warmly and kissed her on both cheeks. "Mireille! I am so glad you've come to our wedding!" Felix was tall, brown-haired, and very handsome in his uniform, even though Mireille knew he would rather play the violin than be an officer.

"Congratulations to you and Elisa!" said Mireille. "You will be very happy together, I know." Then she introduced him to Shahin and Charlot.

Mireille noticed a shadow come over Charlot's face, the look he got when his second sight was upon him. Shahin said, "Al-Kalim has something to say to you."

Charlot said, "Your marriage will be unhappy. He will be unfaithful, and you will have six children, but only one will live. Elisa, you will be Grand Duchess of Tuscany, but your rule will not last long."

"Charlot, that is quite enough!" Mireille snapped, a shocked look on her face. "Elisa, Felix, please forgive my son's rudeness. He does that sometimes, blurts out things he doesn't mean."

Felix seemed more amused than anything else. "Of course we forgive him. He's only a child, after all. And I assure you, Elisa, I will be most faithful." He kissed her on the lips in front of the whole group. Then he laughed, "Grand Duchess of Tuscany, indeed."

But Mireille noticed that Elisa's composure hadn't returned as quickly as Felix's. She clasped her hand and said, "You're thinking of the pieces' prophecy, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. But it _was_ only a dream, wasn't it?"

"You know how I feel about that. I think the pieces do have minds, or spirits, and they know things that will happen in the future. And Charlot has these visions sometimes. Shahin and his people think he's a prophet. But who knows if his visions are true. I'm so sorry if he upset you."

"Not at all. But in combination with the pieces, it does make me wonder."

"Well, it's not very likely, is it? The Habsburgs have firm control of Tuscany, after all, and they're not likely to give it up."

"Perfectly true." Elisa said with a smile.

Mireille turned to her son. "Charlot, what were you thinking? To offend my dear friend as soon as you meet her?"

"Oh, I'm not offended at all," said Elisa.

"No offense meant, especially to my mother's good friend," Charlot said to Elisa. But he whispered in Mireille's ear, "But it _was_ true, what I said. Every word of it."

"Even if it is, you can't go around saying it aloud. You don't realize how rude it sounds."

"But it's the truth!"

"Sometimes people would rather not hear the truth. And especially when you first meet them, you can really offend them. I'm glad Elisa is such a good friend, or she could have been terribly upset with you."

"I'm sorry, Maman. I promise I won't do it again."

"Could you say that to Elisa and Felix?"

"Certainly." Turning to Elisa and Felix, he said, "I'm very sorry for what I said. I hope you will be very happy together."

"Thank you!" said Elisa. "And I'm sure we will."

As they walked into the house, Mireille talked to Pauline and her bridegroom. Victor Leclerc was an undistinguished-looking young man with sandy hair. Like Eugène, he wore it in the same style as Napoleon. Victor was even shorter than Napoleon, as Elisa had said in her letter. He didn't have much to say, but Mireille didn't know if he was naturally quiet or if he was intimidated by all of his soon-to-be in-laws. He didn't appear particularly intelligent, in either case. Pauline giggled. "And how do you like my bridegroom, Mireille?"

"I'm sure you will be happy together."

"You're just saying that to be polite," Pauline whispered in Mireille's ear. She pulled away from her bridegroom, and when she was sure he was out of earshot, she said, "He's crazy about me. But I don't love him, you know. I'm only marrying him because Napoleon wants me to."

"Napoleon has made a good choice, I'm certain."

"Of course. Napoleon knows best, doesn't he? Certainly he thinks he does." Pauline laughed. "But I will be glad to be married, of course. And how about you? Are you going to marry this young English poet I hear so much about?"

"I doubt it. I don't think I will ever marry."

"Oh, how can you say so? You're beautiful, and still young, and men are crazy about you. Talleyrand, and this poet, and poor Lucien... sad, how that turned out, I know, but he still is, you'll see. And probably many more. Of course, there's the little boy-what a handsome little boy, I meant to say-but that can be explained easily enough. Your poet doesn't mind, I'm sure?"

"He's not _my_ poet, and he does understand. In fact, he has a daughter of his own, by a French woman he never married."

"You see? These things are easy enough to explain. No reason not to get married. I hope you're not thinking of becoming a nun again, now that the convents are starting to re-open?"

"No, I couldn't do that. They'd never let me keep Charlot if I became a nun again, and now I know I wouldn't make a very good nun, even though I would love to go back to Montglane if they ever re-open the abbey. No, that has nothing to do with it. As I told Elisa, I've hated myself ever since I killed Marat."

Pauline shook her head. "Nonsense! That was a heroic thing you did. There's absolutely no reason to hate yourself."

"Everyone tells me that, but I still do. And, as long as I hate myself, I can never love anyone enough to get married."

"I don't love Victor, and I'm marrying him anyway. I find love elsewhere."

"I know you do, but that's not my way."

"Is it? What about Talleyrand?"

"That was different. It happened so soon after Valentine's death, and my mind wasn't clear."

Then Pauline noticed Charlot scampering around. "Well, Charlot? Any prophecies for me?"

"Not now. The second sight is no longer upon me. It comes and goes, and I never know when I'm going to have it. Besides, if I did have a prophecy, Maman will not allow me to say it."

By this time, they were standing in the spacious, well-lit entranceway of the villa. It was a lovely place, Mireille realized. Then she saw nineteen-year-old Louis making eyes at Hortense as they stepped inside, and wondered if something was going on between them. Hortense was doing her best to ignore him. Only two members of the family were absent: Lucien and his wife. Mireille asked Elisa about them, and Elisa said, "Christine is ill, and confined to her bed, as she often is. But she wants to see you, I know. I hope you won't mind seeing her. It's not her fault, after all."

"Of course not, and I would be happy to. It's been a long time since I saw her. I wish she were in better health, though. But what about Lucien?" Mireille sighed. She admitted to herself that she had dreaded seeing Lucien and was glad he had not been with the rest of the family to greet her. But now that she was there, she knew she'd have to see him, and she wanted to get the initial encounter over with as soon as possible. At least she'd have her explanation from him, whether she liked it or not.

"Lucien is alone in the parlor. He realized you might not want to see him right away. And he will stay out of your way as much as possible, if that is your wish, but he wants to explain himself to you. Will you allow him to? I know it will be difficult. I can be there, if you'd like."

Mireille shook her head. "No, I think I should see him alone." She felt a lump rise to her throat.

Elisa nodded and asked, "Shall I tell him, then?"

"Yes."

"But I can be within shouting distance, if you'd like. I won't listen in on your conversation, but if you need me, you can shout out, and I'll come running to your rescue."

"Thank you, Elisa."

Elisa went into the parlor, and a minute later she came back into the entranceway and nodded to Mireille. "He's ready to see you."

Mireille felt herself sweating all over, and she couldn't control the butterflies in her stomach, but she knew there was no turning back now. As Elisa held the door open, she stepped into the parlor.

Lucien was sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands. He looked up as he heard Mireille enter the room. Mireille felt her heart pounding as she looked into his face. He was just as handsome at twenty-two as he had been at eighteen, although he looked more weary now, as if the cares of the world had caught up to him, much too soon. She saw he was paler than he used to be, and wondered if this encounter was just as hard for him as it was for her. "Mireille," he said, his voice catching in his throat.

"Lucien," she replied, in a voice that was no louder than a whisper.

"Please, have a seat. May I offer you something to drink? A glass of wine, perhaps?'

"A glass of wine would be very nice." Mireille's voice came out like a squeak. She knew she would need the wine to fortify herself.

Lucien rang the bell for a servant and asked for two glasses of Bordeaux, and Mireille took a seat on a comfortable chair across from him. Neither said a word. They sat looking at each other awkwardly, each waiting for the other to speak first, until the servant brought the wine and left.

For a while they sipped their Bordeaux, afraid to speak, until they both burst out at the same time: "Mireille, I know this is very difficult for you."

"Lucien, I'm sorry if I caused you pain."

Then they shook their heads in embarrassment, and Lucien gestured for Mireille to begin. "I'm sorry, Lucien," she started. "I hope that, as Elisa told me in her letters, that this was all a misunderstanding. If so, I apologize for all the pain I caused you. I don't know how I can make it up to you, or if I ever can. But please tell me, was the report in the newspaper mistaken?"

"It was. Mireille, you must realize I would never be a supporter of Marat, or do anything to honor him. How could you have doubted me?"

"It was there in the newspaper for me to see. What was I to think?"

"So you thought I was lying, when I told you how proud of you I was?"

"At the time, no. But after I read the report in the newspaper, I began to wonder. I knew you were a Jacobin, after all."

"But not the kind who supported Marat! As I told you many times. After all that, how could you believe that report?"

Mireille took a deep breath. "It's hard to explain. You see, I've felt numb inside ever since I killed Marat. I've been incapable of loving anyone. And, Lucien, I was so close to loving you, I was afraid. I couldn't bring myself to take that last step. I think I wanted to believe it, because I didn't want to get close to you. I'm sorry, but you need to know the truth."

"But why were you afraid? I knew you killed Marat, and I've always been proud of you. There was no risk that I would think any less of you."

"I know that. It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with myself and my self-hatred."

"Mireille, you have no reason to hate yourself. You were absolutely right in what you did."

"Everyone tells me that-except my own uncle, of course. But I still feel like I've done a horrible thing. I don't deserve people's love."

"You do! You deserve all the love we can give you. Oh, Mireille, this self-hatred of yours-don't you realize it's destroyed my life as well as your own?"

Mireille held her head in her hands as tears poured out of her eyes. Slowly she wiped them away with a handkerchief as she replied in a broken voice, "I know, and I'm deeply sorry for it. Sorrier than words can say. I never meant to hurt you. Well, perhaps I did at first, when I believed that report. But certainly not now. I don't know how I can make it up to you."

"You can't," he said. "Oh, that sounded harsh, didn't it? No, I didn't mean it that way. It's just that things can never be as they were between us, but I suppose you know that. And I admit it's my fault as well as yours. After all, it was I who chose to marry another woman, instead of waiting until we reconciled."

"And so it's three lives I've destroyed by my self-hatred," Mireille said, feeling absolutely miserable. "I don't know what to do for you. You and Christine don't deserve to have your lives ruined. If there's anything I can do to make amends..."

"We can only go forward from here, since things can never be as they were. But can we at least be friends again?"

Mireille nodded. "Of course. That would make me very happy."

"And will you see Christine? She thinks the world of you, you know?"

"Does she? After all that's happened?"

"She is the sweetest person ever. She knows I still love you, after all that's happened, and yet she adores me."

"She always has, you know. I could tell that, during your theatricals on Corsica."

"And I feel terrible that I can never love her as much as she loves me. But she knew that all along, and still agreed to marry me."

Mireille took a deep breath. "Why did you marry her, Lucien?"

"For two reasons. Anger with you, and pity for her, because she was so frail, and loved me knowing I couldn't love her in return. Both terrible reasons, I know, and I despise myself for them. But it can't be undone. And now she's with child."

"Elisa told me."

"And I'm worried to death about her. Childbirth could kill her. And if she dies in childbirth, I could never forgive myself."

Mireille, who had finished her wine, reached across the table and took Lucien's hand. "Oh, Lucien, I know you'll feel horrible. But perhaps she won't die. You will have the best physicians to care for her, won't you?"

"Of course."

"And you'll have a child to love. That will make you happy."

"I know that. But I would always blame myself for her death."

Mireille shook her head. "There's nothing we can do to change the past, as Elisa keeps telling me. She says we should learn to accept what's been, and go on."

Mireille noticed a ghost of a smile on Lucien's face, at last. "That's very good advice," he said. For a moment, he gently stroked her hand, and said, "I love you, Mireille, and I always will, no matter what happens with Christine. You should know that."

"I know that, Lucien. And I feel the deepest friendship for you."

"Not love? Still? Oh, that's right, you love another. That English poet. I've been thinking so much about myself, I'd forgotten you had someone else in your life as well." His face fell.

"No, he and I are just friends, even though there was a time when he, at least, wished we could be more. But the same thing happened with him, that happened between you and me. I felt I couldn't love him because I hated myself."

"Mireille, you must learn to get over that."

"I know, but I don't know if I ever will." She shook her head. "Tell me one thing, Lucien. How _did_ that report get into the newspaper?"

"Someone put words in my mouth, obviously. Which newspaper was it?"

"The _Gazette de Marseille_."

"The Jacobin newspaper? Oh, no wonder! Why were you reading it, may I ask?"

"I was in the desert at the time, and it was the only French newspaper I could get."

"But you read Arabic and Kabyle, I know."

"I got the French newspaper first, and I was so angry I didn't stop to read what the other newspapers said. But how did it get in there?"

"The editor of that newspaper has always been a big supporter of Marat. _He_ was the one calling Marat a martyr of the Revolution. Not me."

"But why did he make it sound as if it came from you?"

"That's one of the tricks he uses. Making everyone sound as if they agreed with his views. Believe me, I never said any such thing. Don't you remember, I wanted to celebrate Marat's death?"

"And naming the town Marathon?"

"After the heroic Greeks at the Battle of Marathon, as Elisa explained. It was the newpaper editor who chose to believe it was after Marat. That's what he wished. He didn't care what I really said. Mireille, you can't believe everything you read in the newspapers, especially one as biased as you know that one is. I thought you knew that."

"I know that. As I said, I chose to believe it because I was afraid, and I am extremely sorry now." Once again, tears poured from her eyes.

Lucien came around to comfort her, and held her in his arms for a while. "Oh, Mireille, what a disaster these last four years have been!"

"I know, and it's of my doing. But, Lucien, remember, in spite of everything, you have a wife who loves you."

"Even though I can never love her as she deserves. And if she dies..."

"Please don't think of it now. I hope, very much. that she will live."

"So will you go and see her now?"

"Certainly? She is in her bedchamber?"

He nodded. "I will take you there." He led her out of the parlor, and as she left, she saw Elisa standing in the hallway. She gave her a smile of encouragement, and Elisa's face lit up.

"All is well?" Elisa asked.

"As well as it can be. Now I'm going to see Christine."

"I'm very glad of it."

Then Lucien led her up the spiral staircase to Christine's bedchamber. "Christine, my dear," he said as he opened the door, "you have a visitor."

Mireille followed him into the room, which was bright with sunlight streaming from the open window. A vase of flowers sat on the window seat, and gave the room a fragrant odor. Christine lay on the bed, her blond hair spread out over the pillow. She was as pale as a sheet, and she looked fragile. It was too soon for her pregnancy to be showing yet. Her eyes lit up as soon as she saw who her visitor was. "Mireille!" she exclaimed. 'It's been so long!" She looked at Lucien. "Is all well between you?"

"As well as it can ever be," said Lucien. He stroked his wife's hair. "Would you like to talk to Mireille alone? Or would you like me to stay here?"

"I'd love to talk to her alone, if no one minds."

"Of course not," said Lucien. "Mireille?"

"Yes, of course." As Lucien turned to leave, she said, "Thank you. I'm glad we're friends again."

"And so am I."

Then Mireille sat by Christine's side and took one of her hands in hers. Her eyes filled with tears when she saw how frail Lucien's young wife was.

"Christine," she began, "I am very glad to see you again."

"Are you? I didn't think you would be."

"But I am. You love him. I've always known that. You're a better wife to him than I could ever be."

"That's not true. You're the one he loves, and he always will. You'd think I'd hate you for that, but I don't. Mireille, I know I'm not long for this world."

"Don't say that! Lucien will take good care of you. You could live a good, long life."

"I won't. I can just feel it. I will die when this baby is born. When I die, will you marry him?"

"You're not going to die! And, even if you did, I don't think he and I will get married."

"Oh, yes, the English poet. I forgot. I hope you'll be happy with him. Oh, poor Lucien!"

"No, Wordsworth and I are just friends. We could have been more, but we're not. Christine, if you die, Lucien will feel such guilt, I don't think he'd marry me. But you won't die! Get that thought out of your mind."

Christine shook her head. "I told you, I can feel it. I want him to be happy, you see."

"Of course you do, and so do I."

"He can only be happy with you."

"That's not true. He knows you love him, and he will have the baby to make him happy."

"I'm afraid that won't be enough."

"Well, let's not think of it now. It will still be a long time until the baby is born, and I am sure you will live."

"I only hope you're right. Now, Mireille, you must tell me what you've been doing all this time. I know some of it, from Elisa, of course."

A shadow crossed Mireille's face. The last time she had seen Christine had been on Corsica, before she killed Marat. She swallowed, and Christine noticed her hesitation.

"I know about Marat. How heroic of you! I wish I could have been so brave."

Mireille shook her head. "I don't feel brave at all. I feel like a murderer, and I've hated myself ever since. That's why things happened the way they did between Lucien and me. I hated myself too much to love him, and now I've ruined all your lives."

Christine squeezed Mireille's hand. "You did not ruin our lives. I've always been fragile, you know. I would probably have died in childbirth, no matter who I married. And I have a husband I love, and I know he cares for me, even though he doesn't love me. I always knew that, and I went into this marriage with my eyes open. There was never any deception between us. And, if by some miracle, I survive childbirth, I will have a baby I love. So my life has not been ruined."

"But his has."

"It's his own doing as much as yours. He could have waited until things were well between you, but he didn't. Please don't blame yourself. Now, tell me what else has been happening in your life."

And so Mireille told her of her adventures in the desert, and of Shahin and her son, "Who you will meet soon, I promise." And she told Christine of her work in England with Blake and Wordsworth, and how she had found a formula, which Charlot had solved, in Newton's papers, which led her to believe Newton had made the Philosopher's Stone. But she hadn't been able to discover anything further than that.

"Fascinating!" said Christine. "I'll never be able to understand mathematics, but it sounds like a great discovery you've made. And how does it relate to this Montglane Service of yours?"

"I don't know yet, but the pieces of the Montglane Service, along with the board and the cover for the chess set, contain a formula. I won't know exactly what it is until all the pieces are assembled, which is what I'm trying to do. But I believe the formula may be similar to Newton's."

"The formula for the Philosopher's Stone?"

"Perhaps."

"And the Philosopher's Stone gives eternal life, doesn't it?"

"Supposedly. But of course we don't know for certain that anyone actually made it, even Newton. Oh, Christine, if I make the Philosopher's Stone and it does give eternal life, I will give some to you."

Christine smiled wanly. "But I'm sure it will take a long time to make, and I don't have that much time." She squeezed Mireille's hand. "But your heart is in the right place."

Mireille noticed the light from the window was getting dimmer as they spoke, and, as she looked at the clock, she noticed it was nearly time for supper. Letizia had promised a feast. Sure enough, a servant came knocking on the door and said dinner was almost ready. "Will you come to supper?" Mireille asked Christine.

"Yes, I will. Now that we've talked, I feel much better. I think I can eat, after all."

"I'm so glad. You need to eat, more than any of us. I'll see you at supper, then." Mireille left the room and followed the servant to her own bedchamber, where she hadn't been yet, since she'd spent so much time with Lucien and Christine.

Her own room was as light and airy as Christine's. She quickly dressed for supper and came down to the terrace, where a long table stood. The terrace, which gave them a beautiful view of the lake, was lit up with lanterns. It was almost fully dark by now, and Mireille watched the glow of the fireflies as they flitted by. What a beautiful place! she thought. Just looking at the view helped her relax.

Napoleon was sitting at the head of the table, with Josephine to his right and his stepchildren to his left. Letizia sat opposite him, at the foot of the table, with Joseph and Julie on her right and Lucien and Christine on her left. Mireille took her place towards the middle of the table, next to Elisa and Felix, with Charlot and Shahin on her other side. She was very glad that Shahin was seated at the table, and not with the servants. But then, she knew in what great respect the Bonapartes held him.

Napoleon raised his glass. "To Mireille!" he exclaimed. "To her being with us again, and to her success in everything she does! And to Elisa and Felix, and Pauline and Victor!" They all drank from their wine, and Shahin from his water, and then they began to eat. The food was delicious, and similar to what they'd had on Corisca: chestnut cakes with goat cheese, cornmeal cakes with fresh honey and cherry preserves, rabbit, octopus, and potatoes, which were new to the region. Everything was delicious, as Mireille told them.

She felt at peace in their company, more so than she had been for a long time. After all, they were the closest thing to a family she had ever had. She told everyone who hadn't heard it before, about her adventures and her work in England, and they all listened in fascination, especially when she told them about the Philosopher's Stone.

"So you think Newton really could have made the Philosopher's Stone?" asked Napoleon.

"He could have. I don't know yet, that he did. That's what I'm going to try to find out when I get back there."

"And do you think the Philosopher's Stone gives eternal life?"

"There's no way of knowing yet."

Josephine laughed. "Napoleon is thinking what a great benefit it could be to his army. Aren't you, dear? she turned to her husband.

"Yes, I was thinking along those lines."

"Well, even if it does give eternal life, I'm sure it will take a very long time to make, and it won't be ready for your next battle," Mireille said with a smile.

"What a pity. I wish you'd try to make it as quickly as possible."

"I'd have to go back to England for that. And you do want me here for your sisters' wedding, right?"

"Of course. I was only teasing."

"Or somewhat so," added Josephine. They continued with their meal until all the food was finished.

Then Elisa asked, "Felix, my dear, how would you like to play the violin?"

"Very much, if all of you would like to hear me."

"Yes, I was looking forward to hearing you play," said Mireille.

"Then that settles it." Felix got his violin and began playing a lovely melody. Mireille felt totally calm, as she had not been in a very long time, and listened enraptured to the music. Felix's playing could transport people to Heaven, Mireille knew. No wonder Elisa loved him so much. As she listened, she gazed out over the waters of the lake, which glowed in the moonlight, and at the glittering fireflies, and felt at peace. She wished things could stay that way forever.

But then, just as Felix was finishing his tune, Mireille saw three shadows slip away from behind the nearby bushes. She stared at Elisa. "The bandits!" she whispered.

"I saw them, too," said Elisa. Turning to Napoleon, she said, "Please excuse us. We just saw the bandits. We need to see where they went."

"Of course," said Napoleon. Mireille and Elisa left the table and walked toward the lake. They saw two boats set off, one to the left and one to the right. In each boat, they saw an object glowing in the dark.

"What do you make of that?' asked Elisa.

"They have two boats and two hideouts, obviously," said Mireille. "And those glowing objects must be pieces of the Montglane Service. Those pieces glow in the dark, as you know. But which one is the White King? And what's the other one? We got the other pieces they had, the two pawns and the Black Rook. Don't tell me they've found another one." Her face fell.

"It certainly looks that way, doesn't it?"

"Where could they have gotten another piece from? And which one?"

"We'll have to visit both hideouts, then." Elisa's face fell.

"It certainly looks that way."

"Do you think we'll be able to see more in the morning?"

"If they come back here, yes."

"I think they will. I think they're trying to find out what we're going to do."

"And will they bring the pieces with them?"

"That's hard to say. I don't know if it's more important to keep them hidden, or not to leave them. If they don't want to leave the pieces, they'll certainly bring them."

"Elisa, would you like Charlot to watch them?"

"It won't bring about any danger to him, will it?"

"I don't think so. They'll never suspect a little boy. And he's so observant, as you know. He could find out where they go, and which pieces they have. Let me just tell him what I have in mind."

Back at the table, Charlot had fallen asleep in Shahin's arms. Mireille kissed him and woke him up. "Charlot, I know you're sleepy. It's past your bedtime, and you can go to bed soon. I will read to you tonight. But there's one thing I'd like you to do in the morning, if it's not too much trouble."

Charlot's face lit up. "What's that, Maman?"

"Elisa and I have seen the bandits we're after. One of them went to one side of the lake, and two to the other." Mireille pointed at where they had gone. "And each had a piece of the Montglane Service in their boat. We think they might come back here in the morning, to keep an eye on us. Charlot, do you think you can watch them and see where they go, and which pieces they have with them?"

"Of course, Maman!" Charlot said with excitement. "Just tell me what they look like."

"The leader, Caragone, is a heavy-set, bushy-haired man with a dark beard. One of his followers, Roger, is tall and lean with dark hair. The other, Pierre, is short and plump with blond hair."

"Thank you, Maman. I will watch for them. And if they have the pieces with them, I'll tell you which ones."

"Thank you. This means a great deal to us, and I'm so glad you can help us in this. Now, let me take you to bed." She promised the others to return as soon as she could, then she led Charlot to his bedroom, where she read to him until he fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

**Mombello, Lombardy, June 9, 1797**

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Mireille asked Charlot, "Are you ready to look out for the bandits now?"

Charlot's face glowed with excitement. "Yes, Maman."

"Now, do you remember what I told you about how they looked? Why don't you repeat it back to me?" And Charlot did, to Mireille's satisfaction.

Mireille nodded. "Very good, Charlot. Now, remember to look like an ordinary child playing by the shores of the lake."

"I will, Maman."

Mireille kissed him on the forehead as he ran off.

"A delightful child," said Josephine, who was sitting nearby and had overheard the whole conversation. "He reminds me of Eugène when he was that age. Always ready for action. You're very fortunate to have him. Now, Mireille, shall we talk for a while? Ever since you arrived, I wanted to have a chance to talk to you alone. It's not easy, with all of Napoleon's family here, I know."

"Certainly," said Mireille. "I would like to get to know you better, too."

"There's a small sitting room not far away. That should do, I think. No one is likely to be in there at this time." And that proved to be the case. Mireille and Josephine sat in armchairs opposite each other and sipped hot chocolate as they talked.

"Now, I know you told us all about your adventures last night," said Joesphine. "What an exciting life you've had! And I'm very proud of you, that you killed Marat. The whole family is."

Mireille's face fell. "I'm not proud of myself at all. I've hated myself ever since."

"You will feel differently when you're older, perhaps. You were very young at the time, after all. You still are. To think how many more people would have died if he had lived! He would have been even worse than Robespierre. And I don't say that lightly. You probably know I lost someone I loved to Robespierre's Terror."

"Your first husband? You loved him, then? I've heard... otherwise."

"But I think all you know about me came from Elisa, isn't that true?" When Mireille nodded, she continued, "And I know Elisa doesn't like me. I am perfectly aware that she wanted Napoleon to marry Désirée Clary, just as she wanted Lucien to marry you. And I don't think any of Napoleon's family likes me, because I'm a Creole."

Mireille was shocked. "I don't think that's true in Elisa's case. Her mind is open to everyone."

"That may be perfectly true, generally speaking. But when it comes to marrying her brother, it's another matter entirely."

"I don't think so. I think I have North African blood, after all. It's probably impossible to prove, and if I do, it goes far back. But Elisa knows that, and she wanted me to marry Lucien."

Josephine looked closely at Mireille. "Yes, I can certainly see that. There's something about the shape of your eyes, especially when I see you and Shahin together. Yes, I think you're right. And, even farther back, I think you might be descended from the Phoenicians, with your red hair. Well, perhaps in Elisa's case it's not true. At least I hope not. And Elisa certainly has other reasons to dislike me. What does she say about me, that I'm haughty and put on airs?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. But I don't find you haughty at all. You've been very kind."

"Thank you! I'm glad to see your mind is open to me, at least. Now, let me tell you about myself." And Josephine told Mireille of her childhood on Martinique, and how a voodoo priestess had prophesied that she would be unhappily married, that she would be widowed, and that she would be queen. "And the first two came true, as it turned out. As for the third, it seems very unlikely, doesn't it?"

"Perhaps. But I've heard some very unlikely prophecies that have come true. Has Elisa told you about how the pieces of the Montglane Service speak to us?"

"No, Elisa doesn't tell me things, I'm sorry to say."

So Mireille told her about how, during their first adventure on Corsica, the White King had told her she would kill Marat. "Which, to my great shame, turned out to be true," said Mireille, feeling tears coming to her eyes. "And it told Elisa she's be very nearly a queen, and that she'd lose her kingdom. Then one of the pieces we found on the island near Marseille told Elisa her destiny lay in Tuscany. She doesn't believe in the prophecies the way I do, and she dismisses it all as a dream. But then when we first arrived here, Charlot told her she would be Grand Duchess of Tuscany, and I know it disturbed her."

Josephine nodded in agreement. "Having grown up on Martinique, surrounded by people who believe in magic, my mind is quite open to these things. It certainly may be true, that your pieces speak to you. But whether all this will happen, who is to say? Now, let me tell you more about my life." And she told her how, at sixteen, she had left Martinique for France to marry her first husband, the young aristocrat Alexandre de Beauharnais.

"It must have been difficult for you, leaving your whole world behind, and everyone you loved."

"It certainly was. But, you see, I grew to love Alexandre at first, even though he never loved me. He always had other women, and then he told me to my face that it was my older cousin he really loved, and not me. You can imagine how difficult that was. Yes, Alexandre and I had a very difficult marriage. Did you know I filed for a legal separation, and it was granted?"

"Really? You were very brave. Not many women do that."

"Certainly not enough. It's become much more common now, since the revolution, but still not enough women have the courage to legally separate themselves from a cruel husband. Or an unfaithful one, as in my case. No, Alexandre was not cruel. He just didn't love me as much as I loved him. I must say, though, that neither of us was faithful to the other. It was not in our nature to be faithful, I think. I don't think Napoleon and I will be, either. Being faithful is not in Napoleon's nature any more than it is in mine. But at the moment, he's crazy about me, I can tell. I will say, though, that I wasn't unfaithful to Alexandre until I was provoked, horribly so. No, Alexandre and I went through terrible times in our marriage. But then the most remarkable thing happened. It took the Terror to draw us back together."

And Josephine told Mireille how Alexandre, as a general in the revolutionary army, had fallen out of favor with Robespierre after he lost a battle. He was imprisoned, and shortly afterwards she was, too, just for being his wife, even though they had been separated for a long time. "After we were imprisoned, we lived in daily fear of being sent to the guillotine. Every day, they'd read out the lists of people who were to be guillotined that day, and of course we'd breathe a huge sigh of relief when our names weren't on the list. But you know what that was like. You were condemned to the guillotine yourself, after all."

"Yes, and I feel even more guilty that Charlotte Corday died in my place." Mireille hung her head. "I would never have let her, except she insisted that I should be the one to live, because I was the Black Queen in the Game."

"The most important piece of all. She was right to do what she did, you know. Just as you were right to do what you did."

"I know she was right, even though I will always feel horrible about it. I'll never think I was right."

"Well, as I said, you may change your mind when you're older. Anyway, when Alexandre and I were living in fear every day, and realized we might have so little time left, we were drawn back together. We did love each other in the end." Mireille saw tears come to Josephine's eyes. "Then, just a few days before Robespierre's fall, Alexandre was sent to the guillotine. Only a few more days, and he would have been safe!" She broke down in tears, which she wiped with her handkerchief. Mireille squeezed her hand. "I would have followed. You see, my name was on the list to be guillotined the very next day. Robespierre's fall came just in time to save me."

"Oh, how horrible it must have been for you!" exclaimed Mireille. "Do you know about my cousin Valentine?"

"Yes, I do. So, you see, we have much in common, you and I. We both lost someone we loved in the Terror."

The two women embraced briefly, in shared grief. Then they heard the door open. Hortense came in. "Maman! Mireille! There you are."

"Hortense! Is anything the matter?" asked Josephine.

"No, I was just hoping to talk to Mireille."

"I did promise her yesterday, that I'd talk to her," Mireille told Josephine.

Josephine smiled. "Very well. You are a very special young woman, and I'm very glad I've had this chance to talk to you. Hortense will benefit from whatever you have to tell her." She and Mireille took leave of each other, and then Mireille turned to Hortense.

"Shall we go into the music room?" asked Hortense.

"Certainly. I'd love to hear you play the harpsichord."

In the music room, Hortense sat down at the harpsichord, and Mireille sat in a chair nearby. "Shall I play now, or shall we talk first?' asked Hortense.

"Why don't you play something now, then we'll talk. I can see you're most eager to play."

And Hortense played a beautiful tune. As she did when Felix played the violin, Mireille felt transported to Heaven. When Hortense was finished, Mireille said, "Why, that is amazing! You are incredibly talented, Hortense."

"Thank you! I wish I could be a professional musician, but of course people of our class, especially girls, can't do that. So, you told me you don't play?"

"Well, only very little, and very badly. The nuns never taught me, you see, and I didn't have any time to learn, afterwards. But did you know that mathematics, music, and chess are all related?"

"Really? I never knew that."

"They are. Let me tell you a story. You see, a long time ago, there was a mathematician named Euler who lived at the court of Frederick the Great of Prussia. Have you heard of him?"

"Vaguely. I never learned mathematics, except the very basics. How did you learn?"

"The Abbess of Montglane, who was like a mother to me, taught me, beginning when I was twelve years old, and then I continued on my own. Anyway, Euler developed a mathematical puzzle called a Knight's Tour. Do you know what that is?"

Hortense shook her head.

"A Knight's Tour is a puzzle where a knight, using regular knight moves, lands on every square on the chessboard and ends up on the same square where it began. Here, I have a copy of it. I'll show you." And Mireille went to her bag and pulled out her copy of Euler's Knight's Tour. "A few other mathematicians have developed Knight's Tours, but Euler's involves the fewest moves of any that's been developed so far. I must say, though, that I'm working on one of my own."

Hortense grinned. "And I'm sure yours will be the best! Let me look at this." She stared at the paper for a while. "Fascinating! But what does this have to do with music?"

"Ah! Here's where it gets interesting. You see, also at the court of Frederick the Great, there was a composer named Bach. He was very old at the time, and died a few years later. Have you heard of him, by any chance?"

"Johann Christian Bach? Why, of course I have. A great composer!"

"No, this was his father, Johann Sebastian."

Hortense shook her head. "No, I haven't. I didn't even know his father was a composer."

"Sadly, most people don't. I don't know much of his music beyond what I have to tell you, but the little I know is absolutely magnificent. I wish we knew more, but, tragically, he's been completely forgotten. Anyway, this composer, Johann Sebastian Bach, took Euler's Knight's Tour and translated the moves into music. Here, let me show you." And she pulled another piece of paper out of her bag. "I would play this for you. It's one of the few pieces of music I do know how to play, except you're such a great musician, I'd feel embarrassed playing it in your company. Would you like to try?"

Hortense looked at the music and nodded. "Yes, I can certainly play this." And she did, more magnificently than Mireille had ever heard it played before. "Why, this is incredible!" said Hortense when she finished. "What a shame that this man's music has been forgotten. And I can see what you mean." She held the two sheets together. "The music is just the same as the moves on the chessboard! It's all based on a system of eight, isn't it?"

"Exactly right!"

"Do you mind if I copy this down?"

"Not at all."

But after Hortense copied the music and returned it to Mireille, Mireille broke down in tears. "What's the matter, Mireille?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, Hortense. I was just thinking of when I was given the Knight's Tour and the music. It was the day I returned to Paris after being in the desert. Just a few days before I killed Marat. I didn't have time to absorb what any of this meant until much, much later."

Hortense put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Mireille! But you did a heroic thing. As soon as Elisa told me about it, I couldn't wait to meet you. You rid the world of a monster."

Mireille shook her head. "Everyone tells me that, but I don't see it that way. I did a horrible thing."

"No, you didn't. But please, let's not quarrel. I know your secret, so I think you should know mine. I have two, in fact."

Mireille wiped away her tears and said, "Two? I would like to hear them, if you're willing to tell me."

"Yes. First of all, I'm in love."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least." Mireille remembered Louis Bonaparte making eyes at Hortense the previous day. "And I think I might have an idea of who he is."

"No you don't!" Hortense scowled. "You see, I love Christophe Duroc, a junior officer in the same regiment as my brother. But Napoleon wants to marry me off to his horrible brother Louis. You saw him looking at me yesterday, I know. Well, I do not return his feelings. Not one bit!"

"Louis isn't so bad," said Mireille. "He's not handsome, I know. But he has some good qualities. I happen to know he loves poetry. He writes it, too."

"I knew you wouldn't understand!" said Hortense, with tears running down her cheeks. "I should have known you'd side with Napoleon's family. Everyone is against me!"

"No, Hortense." Mireille put an arm around her shoulders. "That's not what I mean. I think you should marry who you love, of course. And I've never met your Christophe. I'm sure he's the very best of young men. Of course you should marry him, if that's what you wish. I'm just saying Louis has qualities you might not appreciate. But if you don't want to marry him, that should be your choice. I don't think Napoleon should dictate who you marry."

"Oh, thank you!" Hortense threw her arms around her. "You do understand! Will you speak to Napoleon, then?"

"I will tell him I think you should be allowed to choose, if that's what you wish."

"Thank you! Now, I'll tell you my other secret. I don't just play music. I compose it, too."

"You compose? Why, that's wonderful! Do you have some of your own music with you? I would love to hear it, if you will share it with me."

"You approve, then? Most people think women shouldn't compose."

"I don't see why not. I think more women should compose music. In fact, I wonder if others have, but they've been forced to remain anonymous. Does anyone else know you compose?"

"Very few. Only my family, and the music master at Citoyenne Campan's academy, where I go to school. Actually, Napoleon is one of the few people who approves, besides you. You wouldn't think he would, the way he treats women. But he's asked me to compose songs for his army, and I have. Shall I play one for you?"

"Yes, I'd love to hear it."

And Hortense played her a lively marching song, perfect for an army. Mireille applauded when she was finished. "That is wonderful, Hortense! Just as good as a man would do!"

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes, I do."

But at that moment Charlot burst into the room. "Maman! Maman!" he cried out.

Mireille threw her arms around him. "What is it, Charlot?"

"The bandits! I know where they went! I've seen it all! Where is Elisa? I have to tell her, too."

Mireille turned to Hortense. "Will you excuse me? It's been great talking to you and listening to your music. I'd love to do it again sometime. But this is very important."

"I know. It's been wonderful talking to you, Mireille."

Mireille and Charlot went into the main drawing room, where Elisa was sitting with Shahin. "Elisa, Charlot has seen where the bandits went," said Mireille.

They sat down, and Charlot told them, "They have two caves they use as hideouts. Caragone goes to one on the western side of the lake, and Roger and Pierre have one on the eastern side. But this is where it gets strange. The pieces they have: they're both the White King!"

Mireille and Elisa looked at each other in puzzlement. "What do you mean, they're both the White King?" asked Mireille.

"Two White Kings! Both exactly the same."

"How could that be?" asked Elisa.

"I don't know. But I'm telling you, it's true. Caragone took one ot the White Kings to his cave, and Roger and Pierre took the other to theirs."

"They must have had a duplicate made," said Mireille. "But when? And, most importantly, why?"

"It could have been at any time in the last four years," said Elisa. "Any good jeweler would have been able to make a copy. As for why, perhaps they had one made in case we recovered the original. So they'd always have one."

"I think you must be right," Mireille agreed. "But which is the original, and which the copy? Charlot, could you tell?"

"No, I couldn't. They looked exactly alike."

"Did you see a symbol on one of them, but not on the other?"

"No, I didn't get close enough to see, either way."

"I'm sure they would have asked the jeweler to copy the symbol," said Elisa.

"Yes, you're right. They probably both have the symbol, then." Mireille sighed. "This is bad news for us. We'll have to get them both, in order to dispose of the true one. And, since we have no idea which one is genuine, I think we'll have to split up. Elisa, I think you'll have to go to one hideout, and I'll go to the other."

"Unfortunately, it looks like we have no choice. Who will go to which hideout?"

"I'll go to Caragone's. His quarrel is with me, after all. You can go to Roger and Pierre's hideout."

"Very well. But, Mireille, don't you think you should take Shahin with you? I'd hate to see you face Caragone on your own."

"I'm strong enough to fight him," said Mireille.

But Shahin interrrupted. "No, Mireille. I'm going with you."

"Shahin, no. This is not your fight."

"But it is. We're all involved in this. I want to see the White King disposed of just as much as you do. Mireille, I insist that I go with you."

"Oh, very well," Mireille replied, hanging her head. "I could use all the help I can get, after all."

"And I'm coming too!" Charlot piped up.

"No, Charlot! Absolutely not! You are not going into danger."

"I want to help you, Maman."

"You will be helping me most of all by staying here and keeping yourself safe."

"No, Maman. You've gotten me into this in the first place, and I want to see it through to the end. You and Shahin will protect me. And I don't think Caragone would hurt a little boy."

"You'd be surprised. He's a cruel and vicious man. He worships Marat, after all. I don't think he'd hesitate to hurt you."

"Let him come with us," said Shahin. "If you refuse, he's just going to follow us, anyway. Won't you, Charlot."

"Yes, I will," said Charlot.

Mireille sighed. "Yes, I can see what you mean. Better for him to come with us than follow us on his own."

"And we will protect him," said Shahin.

"Very well, you can come with us," said Mireille. "But if there's any sign of danger, run!"

"I will, Maman." Charlot threw his arms around her.

Then Mireille realized something. "Elisa," she said. "That means you'd have to face two bandits on your own. Perhaps Shahin should go with you instead?"

"No, she won't be on her own," said another voice, one they didn't expect to hear.

Mireille turned and exclaimed, "Lucien! What... what are you doing here?"

"I came to call you in to the midday meal. I'm sorry, I could help but hear what you were saying."

"How much did you hear?"

"Everything. Elisa, I'm coming with you to fight Roger and Pierre."

"No, Lucien. You're not in the Game. I can't ask this of you."

"It's my fault you're in this situation. I failed to rescue the White King in the first place. It's only right I should help you get it back from the bandits and dispose of it. And it's the least I can do for you, Mireille. I've been feeling so guilty about what happened between us."

Mireille touched his arm. "No, Lucien, I'm more guilty than you. And I'd hate to see you put yourself in danger for us."

"If not for you, than for Elisa. A brother should protect his sister, after all."

"I can protect myself!" said Elisa.

"One young woman-a bride-to-be, at that-against two bandits? I don't think so. You need someone with you. Of course, normally it would be Mireille, and she's fully capable of protecting you, as you know, but in the circumstances, you have to split up. Mireille will have Shahin and Charlot with her, and you will have me."

"Oh, very well," said Elisa. "I could do with some help, to be honest."

Lucien nodded. "So we will go to Roger and Pierre's cave, and Mireille, Shahin, and Charlot will go to Caragone's. When shall we begin?"

"As soon as we can. After the midday meal?" asked Mireille.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes. And I've just thought of something Charlot can do. He can run messages between us. If we discover Caragone has the real White King, we'll have to get a message to you."

"But what if Roger and Pierre do? We won't have Charlot to carry a message to you."

"If it turns out Caragone has the fake, Charlot can send a message saying we're coming to you. Will you do that, Charlot?"

He nodded. "Of course, Maman."

"A great idea, Mireille," said Elisa. "But how will we know which is the real White King, if they look just the same? As you said, they've probably copied the symbol, too."

Mireille hung her head. "I just thought of that. I wonder if the only way to tell is to find out whether it speaks to us. I think the true White King would speak, and the copy wouldn't."

"I think you're right."

Mireille shuddered. "And now I'm frightened. I'm sure it will speak to me in Marat's voice. I hate the thought of hearing that voice again!"

"Mireille, you're going to have to confront your feelings about that. I've told you that before. This is the best of times to do it," said Elisa.

"I suppose you're right." Mireille groaned. "But I can't help being frightened!"

"Mireille, you are incredibly brave! I've always known that. You can face hearing Marat's voice again. And perhaps the piece Caragone has is the copy."

"And we'll be there with you," said Shahin.

"You don't suppose the White King would speak to you, Shahin?" asked Mireille.

"None of the pieces has ever spoken to me. They only seem to speak to you and Elisa. But I will be at your side. No harm will come to you."

"I can only trust you are right."

"Shall we tell the others our plan, at the midday meal?" asked Elisa.

"Certainly. They should know. Then, if we don't come back after a while, they can come after us," said Lucien.

"You see, Mireille, we will have a lot of help," said Elisa. "Now, Mireille, you still have your knife, I assume. The knife that killed Marat?"

"Yes, my albatross. It's right here, strapped to my leg, as always."

"Your albatross? I don't understand," said Elisa, with a puzzled look on her face.

Mireille told her about Coleridge's poem. "So, you see, the knife is a sign of my guilt, just as the dead albatross was, in the poem."

Elisa shook her head. "It sounds like a great poem, but you're being morbid. The knife is there for your protection, not as a sign of your guilt!"

"It's both," said Mireille. "Do you have a knife?"

"Not now, but I'll get one from the kitchen, the same size as yours."

"And Shahin has his dagger, of course."

"And I'll have my sword and my pistol," said Lucien.

"Not your pistol!" said Elisa. "What if that thing goes off in the cave? The bullet could ricochet and kill one of us!"

"I'd only use it in the last resort. And my aim is better than that. I've been trained as a soldier, in case you've forgotten!"

"I'll never forget, that's the problem. Oh, Lucien, I'd hate to lose you!" Elisa threw her arms around her brother.

"But you just said, no morbid thoughts," said Lucien.

"Perfectly true," said Elisa.

"And what about me?" said Charlot. "I should have a knife, too."

"No, you don't! It's much too dangerous. I don't want you to hurt yourself," said Mireille.

"Just a small one, and I'll keep it in my belt," said Charlot. "It won't hurt me there."

"Mireille, he's right," said Shahin. "It would be best if he has a knife, especially if he carries messages between us. Who knows who he'll meet on the way."

"Well, if you put it like that, I suppose you're right," said Mireille. "But I don't want him to hurt himself!"

"I won't, Maman. I'll be very careful, I promise."

Mireille shook her head, but realized she had no choice but to agree. They went to the kitchen and got a knife the same size as Mireille's for Elisa, and the very smallest knife for Charlot. Then they went to join the others for the midday meal.

The family was excited when Mireille and Elisa told them the news, except for Felix. A dark shadow crossed his face, and he said, "Elisa, do you really want to do this?"

"Of course I do. And don't try to stop me."

"But I don't want to lose my bride just before our wedding!"

"Don't worry. I know how to keep myself safe. And I'll have Lucien with me this time. Besides, we're already married, by your way of thinking." Elisa smiled.

"Then I don't want to lose my wife so soon after our marriage!"

"You won't, I promise."

Just before she left, Elisa held Felix in a long embrace, and he covered her face with kisses. Then she and her friends went down to the docks. "I just thought of something!" she told Mireille. "Neither of you knows how to row a boat."

"Actually, now I do," said Mireille. "I learned in Cambridge. And I learned to swim, too."

"That's a relief! And I've learned, too. Both to row and to swim."

"But I'm going to row us out there," said Lucien. "I insist."

Elisa agreed, and got into one boat with Lucien, who rowed towards the east, while Mireille rowed the boat carrying herself, Shahin, and Charlot towards the west.

Elisa and Lucien drew up the boat as close to the bandits' cave as they could. It wasn't long before they spotted the cave. "Is it safe to approach?" she asked.

"I don't see why not. We're armed, after all."

"Still, I think we should go slowly."

And they did. They waited in the entrance to the cool, damp cave until their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Then they saw, on the far side of the cave, the tall, lean figure of Roger and the short, plump figure of Pierre. The bandits saw them at the same time.

"Well, well," said Roger. "If it isn't the young Bonapartes! Where's your murderer friend, may I ask?"

"Don't you dare call Mireille that!" shouted Elisa, her face red as a beet with fury. She drew her knife, and Lucien his sword.

"Can't control yourself, can you?" said Pierre. "Then you'll soon join your friend as a murderer, and you'll both end up on the guillotine."

"Not if I have anything to say about it!" said Lucien, and lunged at him with his sword. Pierre parried, but, with his knife, he was no match for Lucien and his sword. Lucien struck a non-lethal blow to his shoulder, but so much blood poured out of the wound that Pierre collapsed to the ground. Lucien hit him over the head with a rock and made sure he was unconscious.

Meanwhile, Elisa and Roger were trading blows with their knives. For a long time, neither could get the better of the other. Then, suddenly, Roger grabbed Elisa by the waist and held his knife to her throat. "No!" shouted Lucien, drawing his pistol. He held the pistol to Roger's head. "Let my sister go, now, or I'll blow your brains out!"

Roger let go of Elisa just enough for her to struggle free and land a blow to his thigh. He cried out in pain, as Elisa hit him over the head with a rock. He, too, lay unconscious.

"Quick, let's tie them up!" said Elisa. "They're not getting up anytime soon, but it's best to make sure."

Elisa and Lucien were each carrying a rope, and they tied up the two bandits. Then Lucien said, "Now, where is the White King?"

They each lit a candle and searched around the cave. It took them a while, but Elisa eventually found what she was looking for: a spot where the dirt had recently been turned up. "There!" she exclaimed.

They knelt down and dug until the figure emerged: a silver chess piece, of a man sitting on the back of an elephant, the whole thing covered with rubies and sapphires. It was a spectacular sight, and, even though they had both seen the White King before, they gasped at the sight of it.

"But is it the real one?" asked Lucien.

"There's only one way to find out," said Elisa. And she reached out and put a hand on the piece.

Nothing.

"It didn't speak to me," she told Lucien. "This must be the fake."

"Which means..."

"Mireille! She's going to find the real one. She's in danger!"

"Can the White King actually hurt her?"

"Physically, I don't think so. But it's going to talk to her in Marat's voice, and you know how she feels about that."

"But do you think that might not actually be a good thing for her? You keep saying she needs to confront her feelings about when she killed Marat."

"Yes, you're right. I only hope she doesn't give in to her self-hatred, or it could drive her mad."

Lucien put his hands on her shoulders. "Mireille is strong, Elisa. She hates herself now, but she's too strong to give in to madness. She might come out of this feeling much better about herself than she did before. Give her a chance to do that."

"You're right," said Elisa. "We can only wait and see."

"And she has Shahin and Charlot with her. They will keep her safe."

Meanwhile, Mireille, Shahin, and Charlot drew up their boat near the other cave. "I sense danger ahead," said Shahin.

"We knew that already," said Mireille. "Shahin, I will face Caragone by myself if you don't want to. I've gotten the better of him before."

"The danger is not from him. It's from quite a different source."

"We will face it," said Mireille. "It's not like you to turn away from danger."

"I'm not turning away. I'm only warning you."

They approached the cave through a long, sharp downward slope, entered, and let their eyes adjust to the darkness. As soon as they were able to see, the bushy-haired, thick-bearded figure of Caragone leaped out at them. "Well, if it isn't the little murderer!" he exclaimed. "And I see you've brought your Arab friend with you."

"I am not an Arab, I'm a Tuareg!" Shahin shouted in fury, as he drew his dagger and Mireille her knife.

Then Caragone's eyes fell on Charlot. "What's this? Your son, isn't he, little murderer? I knew that was no ordinary child playing by the lake."

Mireille shuddered with fear for her son, and called out, "Charlot! Get away from here!" Charlot scampered away towards the back of the cave to look for the White King.

"Don't you dare hurt my son!" Mireille shouted. She lunged at him with the knife, and he parried the blow with his own.

"Ah, yes, the knife that killed Marat! You still have it, I see. As I told you before, it would be an honor to be killed with the same knife. But I don't intend to die," said Caragone.

Shahin attacked him from one side and thrust his knife through Caragone's left shoulder. Caragone cried out in pain, and then Mireille thrust her knife through his right shoulder. She cringed at the sight of blood and felt sick to her stomach, but steadied herself. He dropped his knife and fell to the ground, with blood pouring from both wounds. Shahin hit him over the head with a rock to knock him out. "That will keep us safe for a while," he said.

"He's not going to die, is he?" asked Mireille.

"So what if he does? Filthy vermin! He doesn't deserve to live."

"I don't want to be a murderer again," said Mireille, hanging her head.

"You have got to get over that. But, to ease your mind, he's not going to die from our blows. We didn't hit a vital organ. He's just out for a while. Long enough for us to find the White King. Come with me. I think Charlot is already looking for it."

They lit their candles and walked toward the back of the cave, where they saw Charlot digging in the dirt. "Maman! Shahin! Did you kill him?"

"No, we just knocked him out. What have you found?" said Shahin.

"I think I found it! The White King! But I haven't touched it yet, I promise."

Mireille and Shahin stepped closer to the hole in the ground, and then they saw it: an eerie glow of silvery light pouring out of the jeweled chess piece, a figure of a man sitting on the back of an elephant, surrounded by rubies and sapphires. Mireille noticed that one ruby had fallen off and was lying on the ground near the piece. "This is it," she told her son. "You've found it, Charlot."

"But is it the real one?" asked Charlot.

Mireille shuddered, knowing there was only one way to find out. Now that she had come so close, she was afraid she couldn't do it. Shahin touched her shoulder. "Mireille, you have to touch it," he said.

"Shahin, can't you touch it?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, and she felt a lump move up to her throat.

He shook his head. "No, it has to be you. The pieces only speak to you and Elisa, never to me."

"And why is that?" she asked, stalling for time.

"I don't know, but it seems that it's always been that way. There is something special about you. Touch it, now."

Mireille's hands were shaking like leaves. "I can't. You know it's going to speak to me in Marat's voice."

"You have to confront your feelings about that. That's the only way for you to be well, in the end. Better to do it now."

She shook her head. "I'm frightened."

"I know. But you've always been strong, Mireille. You can do this. And I'm right here to help you if anything happens. I'll pull you away if it tries to hurt you. And besides, this might be the fake."

"I hope it is. But then poor Elisa would have the real one, and she'd be in danger."

"That's right. If this is the fake, we can go and rescue her. Come now. You have to do it."

Taking a deep breath, Mireille reached out her hand and touched the White King.

She immediately fell into a trance and heard what she dreaded: Marat's voice coming out of the silvery chess piece. "Never expected to hear my voice again, did you?" he snarled. It was the voice of pure evil, as Mireille had always known. "When you killed me, you thought I was gone. But I will never go away. I will haunt you for the rest of your life!"

Mireille shuddered all over her body. "No! I wish I hadn't killed you!"

Marat's voice came out in a sneer. "Too late for that, isn't it, little murderer? And are you sure you wish you hadn't killed me? You might be dead, and all your friends, too, just like your silly little cousin. And thousand of other people, too. Do you really want that?"

"No, of course not."

"If I were still alive, that's what would have happened. And the Montglane Service, and all its power, would have belonged to me. As you know very well. Deep down inside, you're glad I'm dead."

"I suppose," said Mireille, trying to compose herself. But the sweat was running down her body. "I just wish it had been someone else to kill you. Not me. Charlotte, for example. She was always so strong. She could have handled it better."

"You are the Black Queen, not your friend Charlotte. Only you had the strength to kill the White King. She would not have been able to, in the end."

"Then what does that make me?" Mireille hung her head in despair.

"A murderer, of course," Marat's voice taunted her. "Once a murderer, always a murderer. You will never escape from me."

"No!"

But Marat's voice was relentless. "You will hate yourself for the rest of your life because of what you did to me."

Mireille covered her face with her hands. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Marat's voice mocked her. "Oh, go on. Cry away. It won't make you feel any better in the end. I will always have a hold on your mind, and you will never get away from me. You little coward!"

Mireille, her face with fury, suddenly leapt to her feet and drew her knife. She rushed with it towards the White King.

"Ha, ha!" Marat's voice gave an evil laugh. "The last words I said to you before you stabbed me. You can't stand being called a coward, can you? That's what provoked you in the end."

"No! It was to avenge Valentine!" But Mireille's voice sounded weak.

"Wrong! You came to _confront_ me because of your silly little cousin. But you didn't think you could kill me, did you? Not until I called you a coward. That's what set you off. And you've just done it again. Rushed at me with your knife, even though you'll just be hitting thin air now. You haven't changed. You'd kill me again if you could. As I said, once a murderer, always a murderer."

Mireille sank down to the ground. "No, I don't want to kill anyone, ever again."

"It's not a matter of wanting, is it? When it comes down to it, you'll do it again, and you always will."

She shook her head. "You're wrong. I want to be a better person."

The White King glowed with a stronger light, and Marat's voice suddenly fell silent. Mireille felt Shahin's hand on her shoulder as he pulled her away. But just as she broke free of the White King, a ray of light came out of the chess piece and hit Charlot. The little boy looked as if he were glowing in the light.

"Charlot!" Mireille ran towards her son. But by the time she reached him, the light was gone.

"I'm safe, Maman," he said. "But are you?"

"I don't know," said Mireille.

Shahin took her in his arms and held her close, as if she were no older than Charlot. "Mireille, he's gone now. Marat is gone forever," he soothed her.

"But what happened to Charlot?" she asked.

"Marat struck out at him, but when you came out of your trance, everything went back to normal. Nothing is going to happen to him."

"Did you hear everything?"

"I heard everything you said. I could only guess at what he said to you."

She told him, and shook her head. "It's true. I couldn't find the strength to kill him until he called me a coward. I didn't know I could kill him until that moment. So it wasn't really to avenge Valentine. It wasn't for any noble cause at all. I just fell into a rage. I don't even think I realized what I'd done at first. Once I realized, of course, I was absolutely horrified, and have been ever since."

He stroked her hair. "Mireille, you were very brave, no matter what made you kill him in the end. The monster is dead, and Valentine is avenged."

"But I'm a horrible person!"

"That is not true. I heard what you said, about wanting to be a better person, and that seemed to break the spell, didn't it? But you always have been a good person. You don't need to be any better than you are."

"No, I can't be a good person and do what I've done."

"That's not true. Anyone would have done the same in your situation. Mireille, there are so many people who love you, even people who don't like each other. Think of all the Bonapartes. Elisa and her sisters don't like each other. None of them like Josephine and her children. Hortense doesn't like any of them. But they all like you. That would not be possible, if you were a bad person. And so many people know you killed Marat, and don't think any less of you for it."

"That's true, about the Bonapartes. But one person hates me. My own uncle!"

"You're taking his betrayal too hard. If he made a saint out of Marat, his love is not worth having. And think about it. He didn't love Valentine any more than he loved you, or he wouldn't have made a saint out of the man who killed her. Yes, he's a great artist, but he's a terrible person. Please, put him out of your mind."

"But he's my only living relative, except for Charlot."

"The one person who, most of all, should have stood up for you, but he didn't. What does that say about him?"

"You're right, Shahin. I know you are. But I can't get it out of my mind that I've lost my only family, except Charlot."

"The Bonapartes are your family now. They love you more than Jacques-Louis David ever did."

Mireille realized it was true. The Bonapartes did love her more than her own uncle ever would. They loved her even though they hated each other, and even though they knew she had killed Marat. And she found comfort in the thought. "You're right, Shahin," she said. "They are my family. Now let's go and find Elisa and Lucien."

They walked back towards the entrance of the cave, only to find a nasty surprise: Caragone was gone, and the entrance was blocked. Mireille was amazed to hear Shahin curse under his breath. He had never cursed before, as far as she knew. "What happened to him?" she asked.

"Obviously our blows were not as strong as we thought, and he didn't lose all that much blood, either. He woke up, no doubt to get help from his friends. I'm sorry, Mireille. It was my mistake. I should have brought a rope to tie him up."

"He's coming Elisa's way! She's in danger! But how can we get to her?" She began to dig in the dirt covering the entrance, only to realize there was more than dirt there. Caragone had blocked the entrance with a huge boulder. "We're trapped! How can we move that?" she asked.

"We can't. We'll have to look for another way out."

"How did he get it there? With his wounds and everything?"

"There's a sharp downward slope leading to the entrance, if you recall. This boulder must have been nearby, and all he had to do was kick it with his foot, and it would lodge in the entrance. But we can't move it upwards, without a huge effort, which would take too much time. No, let's look for another way to get out of here."

They went back into the cave and looked around until they saw a tiny sliver of light shining through the ceiling. "There!" Mireille pointed to it. "A hole in the ceiling."

"But it's too high up," said Shahin.

"If I stood on your shoulders, perhaps I could get to it."

He shook his head. "I doubt it, but you can try."

Mireille got up on Shahin's shoulders, but even after she pulled herself up to her full height, she couldn't quite reach the opening. "No!" she cried. "Only three more feet, and I could have gotten to it. We don't have an object over three feet tall, do we?"

"Yes, you do," Charlot's tiny voice piped up. "I'm over three feet tall."

"Charlot, you can't..." Mireille began.

But Shahin interrupted. "But it's our only chance. There's no time to lose."

They pulled him up until Mireille was standing on Shahin's shoulders and Charlot on Mireille's. "Can you get through there, Charlot?" Mireille asked.

"Yes, but there's only room for me to get out. The opening is too small for you."

Mireille shook her head in disappointment and frustration. "Charlot, if you can get out, I'm going to send you with a message for Elisa. She and Lucien can come to rescue us. Shahin, do you think they could move the boulder?"

"Certainly, with the two of them pulling from the outside, and the two of us pushing from the inside."

"Then I'll write out a message from her. But what about Caragone? He's on his way there, and he has a long lead on us."

"He can't move very quickly, with his wounds. But even so, I think Elisa and Lucien could hold him off. But the quicker you do this, the better."

"Very well. Now, how shall I write the message? In code, obviously, because I don't want Caragone to get his hands on it. But our usual code takes a while. I know!" She grabbed a thin piece of paper from her bag and wrapped it around the handle of her knife so it formed a scroll. Rapidly, she scribbled a message on it: "Elisa, we're trapped in the cave. We have the real White King. It talked in Marat's voice. But all is well with me, if you can get here in time. Come quickly!"

"What is that?" asked Shahin, looking at the scroll.

"It's called a scytale. It's a very ancient form of code, first used by the Greek armies. I read about it in Plutarch. You write the message on a scroll wrapped around an object. My knife is perfect for that. When you unfold the scroll," she showed him, "the message just looks like a bunch of letters. It can't be read until you wrap it around an object of the same diameter as the one used to create the message."

"A brilliant idea. It's quick and easy, I grant you that. But does Elisa know about that form of message? And does she have an object of the right diameter?"

"Her knife is the same size as mine. It should work."

"Let's just hope she figures it out."

"If she doesn't, Lucien will. I know he's read Plutarch. Now, let's not waste time." Mireille gave Charlot the scroll, then they got into their positions again, with Mireille on Shahin's shoulders and Charlot on Mireille's. She gave him one last kiss. "Now, take this to Elisa. Quickly!"

"I will, Maman. It's too far for me to run all the way to the other side of the lake, though. I'll have to go back to the villa, and get someone to row me."

"Do it, then. There's no time to lose."

Charlot climbed out of the cave, carrying Mireille's message.

"Now all we can do is wait," said Shahin.

Charlot ran towards the villa, where he told the family what had happened. They began to argue back and forth about who should row the boat to take Charlot to Elisa, when Hortense stepped forward and volunteered. "I will do it," she said.

"You?" asked Napoleon. "You're just a girl. A man needs to go."

"Elisa already has a man with her. She has Lucien. And I want to help Mireille."

"Oh, very well," he agreed. "We don't have time to argue."

And so Hortense rowed Charlot towards the eastern cave. When they got there, they saw Elisa and Lucien in battle against all three bandits. Caragone had gotten there more quickly than Mireille and Shahin expected, and he had untied his friends. They traded blows furiously. Hortense drew up the boat, and she and Charlot came running. She drew a knife, which had been strapped to her leg. Grinning at Charlot, she said, "I got the idea from your mother. Now stay here, Charlot. I'm going to help them." She rushed forward and joined the battle.

Quickly she landed a blow on Caragone's already-wounded shoulder, and he doubled over in pain. Elisa exclaimed in astonishment. "Hortense! What are you doing here?"

"No time to explain now," said Hortense. She struck Roger on the shoulder, then grabbed a rock and hit him over the head. Elisa and Lucien redoubled their efforts, and soon all the bandits were down. Lucien tied them up, and made sure that this time the knots were tighter. They left the bandits in the cave, then went to the place where Charlot was waiting for them by the boat.

"I didn't know you could row a boat," Elisa told Hortense.

"I can do a lot of things you don't know about," Hortense replied in anger, but then calmed down. "I'm sorry. The two of us got off to a bad start when we met. But we both care for Mireille, and she's in danger. Charlot has a message for you, explaining. And, since you asked, I learned to row at school. Citoyenne Campan, my headmistress, is a strong believer in physical activity for girls."

By that time, they had reached Charlot. "Maman is in danger," he said, and handed Elisa the message.

Elisa frowned at the sheet. "What's this? It's just a bunch of letters. It's not our usual code."

"I know what that is!" said Lucien. "It's called a scytale." And he gave the same explanation Mireille had given Shahin.

Elisa rolled her eyes. "Mireille and her brilliant mind will never cease to amaze me!" she exclaimed. She wrapped the scroll around the handle of her knife to decode the message, and her face turned white as she read it. "Lucien, she's trapped inside the cave. Caragone covered it with a bg boulder. We've got to go and rescue her."

"Let's hurry," said Lucien. "And there's no time to lose. There's a storm coming. If we don't leave this minute, we might not get there at all." The sky was rapidly turning gray with storm clouds. "And let me row. I know how important you think it is for girls to learn, but the truth is, I'm the strongest. I can get us there faster."

They didn't argue with him as they got into the boat. Lucien rowed as fast as he could toward the western side. When they reached the cave, Elisa shouted out, "Mireille! Shahin! We're here! Can you hear us?"

"Elisa? Yes, we can hear you," Mireille's voice came from the other side.

"Come! You and Shahin can push the boulder from your side while we pull from ours. And we've got to hurry! A storm's coming. Now, on the count of three..." Elisa counted to three, and then she, Lucien, and Hortense pulled at the boulder, while Mireille and Shahin pushed from their side.

After much effort, they dislodged the boulder and Mireille and Shahin climbed out of the cave. There were embraces on all sides. Mireille was astonished, but very glad, to see Hortense. "I rowed Charlot in the boat when we came to get Elisa and Lucien," Hortense explained. "I wanted to do my part to rescue you."

"And I'm very glad you did." Mireille smiled. Rain was pouring down in sheets now. "Let's get back into the cave to keep as dry as we can. We can't go across the lake in this."

"Do you have the White King?" asked Elisa.

"Right here," said Mireille, her hand on her bag.

"I have the false White King with me," said Elisa. "Should we throw both of them into the lake?"

"Just the real one. I think the fake one can be safely buried."

But when they stepped inside the entrance and turned around, Mireille exclaimed, "Oh, no!"

Elisa soon saw what Mireille had just seen: the three bandits, trudging through the mud towards them.

"They got loose!" said Lucien. "I thought I tied them up well."

"Not well enough," said Caragone, catching up to them. "We were right behind you the whole time. You were thinking too much about rescuing your little murderer friend to notice us."

"Mireille is not a murderer!" shouted Elisa, drawing her knife and trading blows with Caragone.

"Then what do you call what she did to Marat?" Caragone sneered.

"Justice! And every one of us would have done the same." Elisa, in a fury, piled blow after blow on him. Slowly, she was leading him to a cliff that stood above the lake. Mireille and the others traded blows with Caragone's two companions. After the other two were down, Mireille joined Elisa in the fight against Caragone.

He sneered at her. "Will you murder me, just like you murdered Marat?"

"No, I've come to help my friend!" She landed a blow across his cheek. He reached his hand up to his face, but just then his eyes fell on the glowing object in Mireille's bag.

"The White King!" he exclaimed. "You're not getting that away from me. It's mine!" He lunged for the bag, but Mireille threw it out of his reach. It landed on the very edge of the cliff.

"No!" he shouted. "Little murderer! You'll never have the White King! It will always be mine." He ran toward the bag with the White King in it, but just as he was about to reach it, he slipped in the mud. Crying out in a rage, he grabbed for the White King, but he fell off the precipice and went tumbling into the lake.

Mireille and Elisa, who had been joined by the others, gaped in astonishment. They waited for him to emerge from the waters of the lake, but he did not appear. Mireille couldn't believe what had just happened. "He's gone? Just like that?"

"Yes, and good riddance to him," said Shahin.

"And we didn't kill him," said Elisa. "Neither of us." She put an arm around Mireille.

"No, the mud did your work for you." Shahin's face was lit up in a rare smile.

"But would we have killed him, if it came to it?" asked Elisa.

"I'm glad we didn't have to find out," said Mireille. "But let's get back inside until the rain lets up." They got back into the cave until they saw a lightening in the sky.

After a while, Lucien said, "I think it's safe to leave now." But then he shook his head. "Oh, no! Do you see that?"

Mireille and Elisa looked towards the lake, where they saw the other two bandits, Roger and Pierre, rowing away in their boat. "They got away!" said Mireille, her face red with rage.

"Don't worry about it. They're nothing without their leader," said Elisa.

"But they know I killed Marat. Don't you remember, they threatened to expose me if I didn't do as they said? They could have me sent to the guillotine!"

"There's no danger of that now," said Lucien. "Those who admire Marat, or at least those who would admit to it, are very few, now that Robespierre has gone to the guillotine. The new leaders of France are glad he's dead. If anything, you should be given a medal." He smiled. "Perhaps even your uncle is ashamed of himself."

"Don't remind me of my uncle." For a moment, tears came to Mireille's eyes, but she quickly blinked them back.

"But it's true," said Lucien. "No one thinks of Marat as a hero now. Many people say Charlotte Corday was a hero. But of course, it should really be you."

"Charlotte was a hero," said Mireille. "She gave her life for me, and I will always feel terrible about that, almost as bad as I feel about Marat."

"None of it is your fault," said Elisa. "It was a horrible time to live through, for everyone. But you're alive, and many innocent people are alive because of you."

"I realize that," said Mireille. "And I will try to learn to live with myself. It's very hard, but I'll try."

Elisa threw her arms around her. "I'm very glad to hear you say that."

"I remember what you told me. That I must go on with my life. I will do that, and I will try to do as much good as I can."

"I know you will," Elisa said, her face lit up in a smile. "And don't worry about those bandits. They're nothing now."

"Yes, I think you might be right." Then they sat in silence until the storm let up.

"Now, let's go home. We can dispose of the White King along the way," said Elisa.

They all got into the boat, and Lucien rowed back toward the villa. When they reached the middle of the lake, Elisa asked, "Now, who will throw the White King into the lake?"

"I will," said Shahin. "I can touch it without its talking to me."

Mireille handed him the bag, but as she did so, her fingers grazed against the White King. She realized her mistake too late, and, in spite of her new resolve, she shuddered at the thought of hearing Marat's voice again. But the voice that came from the White King was not Marat's.

"I'm sure you're surprised to hear my voice, Maman," the White King said in Charlot's childish voice.

"Charlot?" Mireille asked in puzzlement. "What is going on?"

"This is going to come as a shock to you, Maman, but I am the new White King."

"No! That's impossible! You're on the Black team, with me."

"I know you're not going to understand now, and perhaps you never will, but I've always been on the White team. I was slated to become the White King after Marat."

Mireille shook her head. "But you're my son! I love you, and you love me."

"Yes, I do. That's what you don't understand. You see, the only way to end the Game is for the White and Black teams to work together. Don't you agree, the best way for that to happen is if the players liked each other?"

"I've never heard such nonsense! The Black team is good and the White team is evil. We're enemies. Charlot, I know we've had our moments when we didn't see eye-to-eye, but you're not my enemy!"

"And I'm not supposed to be your enemy. The White and Black teams don't have to be enemies. I see it as being two sides of the same coin instead. They should try to get along. Especially the Black Queen and the White King."

"Do you mean to say I should have tried to get along with Marat? You must be out of your mind! He was my enemy. And don't try to tell me he wasn't evil."

"Marat _was_ evil, no doubt about it. And there was no way he would have made any effort to get along with someone on the Black team. That's why he was totally unsuitable to be the White King, and why he had to die. You see, Maman, a piece can't be replaced until he or she dies or decides to resign from the Game. And Marat would never have resigned. It's no coincidence that I was born just before you killed Marat. I was meant all along to replace him as the White King. But, since he wouldn't resign from the Game, he had to die before I could take his place."

Mireille shuddered all over. Could any of this be true? She hated to think of her son having the same role in the game as Marat. She didn't want to be her son's adversary, if what he said were true, so she asked the White King, "Do you mean I could resign as Black Queen if I wanted to?"

"Only if you can find a suitable replacement. The Abbess found you, after all. But there are special criteria for the Black Queen. She has to be born on the fourth of April, and she has to have the birthmark with the figure 8 on the palm of her right hand. That is very rare. The Abbess was lucky to be able to find you in her lifetime. You might have to wait a very long time to find someone to replace you."

Mireille groaned in frustration. "So I'll have to be the Black Queen for a long time."

"I'm afraid so. That's why there's no better time than now to end the Game, while I'm the White King and you're the Black Queen."

"I still don't understand. To win the Game, one side has to collect all the pieces and figure out the formula."

"That's not true. That's the way to win one round of the Game. But, until both sides can work together, there will always be another round, and the Game will go on endlessly."

"But if both sides work together, there won't be a winner."

"That's just the point. The purpose is not to win. The purpose is for people to get along."

Mireille shook her head. "That's nonsense. In chess, there's always a winner and a loser."

"The Game is only a metaphor. It's not an actual chess game with winners and losers, even though I admit most players see it that way. That's always been their downfall. And it will be yours, if you try to win the Game for the Black team instead of trying to get along with the White team."

"But the White team will use the formula for evil! I'm trying to keep it out of their hands, so that won't happen."

"Marat would have used it for evil, yes. But I wouldn't, and neither would most of the people on the White team. I'm telling you, Maman, we're not evil! I'll tell you something else. Shahin is also on the White team."

Mireille's face turned red with anger, and she shouted, "Now I've heard enough! If you expect me to believe my dear friend Shahin is my enemy, and the ally of Marat, you have totally lost your mind! He's helped me all this time. And he wanted me to kill Marat, when I was repelled by the idea. How could he possibly be on the same side as Marat?"

"Shahin was the first to realize Marat needed to be replaced as the White King. And when I was born, he knew I'd be the one to replace him. That's why he wanted you to kill him."

"But why has he been helping me, if he's on the White team? And he's a friend of the Bonapartes, in case you're forgotten. _They're_ on the Black team, I hope!"

"Yes, the Bonapartes-the ones who are in the Game-are on the Black team. Shahin realizes the same as I do, that we all have to get along, in order to end the Game for good. That's why he's become a friend to you and the Bonapartes."

"I don't believe you!"

"Then don't. It will be your mistake. The worst mistake you'll ever make. If you see the Game as something to win, it will consume your life and you'll become obsessed with it."

"It's impossible to believe you and Shahin are on the same side as Marat. No, this is all nonsense! But tell me this. If you're the new White King, why did it speak with Marat's voice when I touched it in the cave? He's dead, and if you've taken his place, it should have spoken with your voice."

"Your feelings about him were unresolved, even though he was dead. All this guilt you've been feeling over killing him. That had to be resolved before my voice could take the place of his. When you decided to become a better person, that put an end to those feelings. Remember the ray of light that came out of the White King and hit me? That was the voice of the White King being transferred from Marat to me."

"I still can't believe you're really the White King. And is this all real, with the pieces being able to speak? Why do they only speak to Elisa and me?"

"The pieces only speak to people they have something to say to. We've had a lot to say to you! We wanted you to get over your guilt, or at least learn to live with it. Now that you've decided to, I admit, we won't have much more to say to you."

"And Elisa?"

"Don't you realize she's been concerned for her future? She's the middle child in the family and feels unappreciated by the others. For a long time, Napoleon wouldn't let her marry Felix. So she faced an uncertain future, in her mind. But now that she's marrying Felix, and events have been taking the turn they need to, in order for her to fulfull her destiny, we won't have much more to say to her, either."

"So we're on our own now?"

"Yes. And it's your choice, to join forces with us or continue to fight us."

"But I have to win the Game! I have to keep the pieces out of the hands of those who'd use them for evil!"

"Then that will be your downfall."

But just at that moment, Shahin shook Mireille's shoulder. "Mireille, wake up!" he said. "You've been in a trance again, talking to the White King. I can't throw it into the lake while you're still talking to it. But I must say, what you were saying didn't make any sense."

"What it said to me certainly didn't make sense. Charlot!" she turned to her son. "Did you really say all that?"

He shook his head. "I didn't say anything, Maman. But I heard you, and Shahin's right. You didn't make much sense."

"It talked to me with your voice, not Marat's. It said you're the new White King, and Shahin is on the White team, too."

Elisa said, "That's clearly nonsense. Wer're all on the Black team. That makes about as much sense as my being Grand Duchess of Tuscany! Another reason why I think these pieces don't really talk, and it's all a dream."

Then Hortense spoke up. "Mireille, Elisa, it said something to me, too. I brushed my hand against it, and it spoke."

"What?" asked Elisa. "How could it have talked to you? You're not even in the Game!"

"Who says I'm not?" said Hortense with a smile.

"You and I don't even get along. How could you be in the Game with me?"

"We both get along very well with Mireille, though."

"And, supposedly, if you can believe this nonsense, everyone in the Game, on both teams, has to get along, or the Game will go on forever."

"I've never heard such nonsense!" said Elisa. "We could never get along with monsters like Marat! All the more reason to think the pieces don't really speak. But, Hortense, what do you think it said to you?"

"Well, it was all nonsense, if it makes you feel any better. It said I would be Queen of Holland, and the mother of an emperor."

"That's even more ridiculous than my being Grand Duchess of Tuscany. That does it! These things don't talk at all, and it's all our imagination. Shahin, we're at the middle of the lake now. Why don't you throw the White King in, so it will be gone forever? No evil people will ever be able to get their hands on it."

Shahin nodded. "I will do so. You're right, it's best to put the White King beyond the reach of anyone." And he picked it up and tossed it into the lake. They all held their breath as they watched it sink, making large bubbles on the way. The waters briefly spurted up into a tall fountain, which seemed to glow with white light. Then they settled down, and the White King was gone forever. Mireille breathed a huge sigh of relief and felt as if a terrible burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

"It's gone. No one will ever find it now."

"And it will never speak to you with its nonsense again-or appear to speak," said Elisa. "Me as Grand Duchess of Tuscany! Hortense as Queen of Holland! Shahin and Charlot on the White team, with Charlot as the White King! We don't need to be fed anything so ridiculous. Good riddance to it!"

But Mireille noticed that Charlot and Shahin didn't say anything about which team they were really on. She could only hope she was right, and they were on the Black team with her. Now that her mind was clear of the White King, she couldn't think about it any other way. "You're right, Elisa. It probably isn't real. Now, what about the copy of the White King? What should we do with it?"

"It's only a copy, so there's no danger to us from it. But not everyone will realize that, of course. People who don't know we got rid of the White King will think this is the real one. So I think it's best if we buried it away. The garden of the villa seems like a good place."

"Yes, I think so, too. Let's bury it as soon as we get there," Mireille agreed.

When they finally reached the villa, the rest of the family ran out to greet them. Elisa and Felix fell into each other's arms and wouldn't let go for a long time. Mireille found herself embraced on all sides. Eventually Letizia drew her aside and said, "You're looking well. Much better than when you left. All is well with you, then?"

"Yes, and I'm determined to be a better person."

"That won't be hard for you. You're a very good person already. I suppose you're talking about Marat?"

"Yes, I'm going to try to put it behind me and go on with my life, and do as much good as I possibly can."

"An excellent idea!"

Then Mireille and Elisa went to bury the false White King in the garden.

That evening at supper, they told the rest of the family about their adventures, leaving out what the White King had said. Everyone was glad Caragone was dead, without any of them having to kill him, and the White King was gone forever. They all praised Mireille and the others for their courage.

Shortly afterwards, guests began arriving for the wedding: soldiers in Napoleon's army, all the distant relatives of both Elisa and Felix, some of them the same people, since they were distantly related to each other, a few of Elisa's classmates from St.-Cyr-those she could tolerate, which were not many-and Pauline's former lovers. After a while, Mireille felt overwhelmed by the crowd and, when she could get away, she went to one of the small sitting rooms near the back of the villa to read, or to write to Blake and Wordsworth to ask if they'd made any discoveries about the Philosopher's Stone. She was not able to spend any time alone with Elisa, since Elisa was so busy preparing for her wedding. But occasionally Hortense would join her in the sitting room, and they'd play a game of chess, which Hortense would always win. Mireille never had been good at chess, in spite of spending her life looking for a magical chess set. She wondered at this sometimes. Since she's always been excellent at mathematics, and mathematics was so closely related to chess, as she'd explained to Hortense, she would have thought she'd be good at chess. But this wasn't the case. Charlot, however, showed signs of being gifted at chess. On the few occasions when he joined them, he could beat both of them very easily.

The day of the wedding dawned bright and clear. Not a cloud could be seen in the azure-blue sky. Fresh breezes blew off the waters of the lake, so the heat of June did not seem as oppressive as it could have been. It was a perfect day for a wedding, and Mireille felt her spirts lifted. She, Caroline, and Hortense helped Elisa into her magnificent white bridal gown. After Elisa was all settled, they helped Pauline into hers. Then they joined the long procession to the church.

As they were about to reach the church, Napoleon's soldiers fired a twenty-one gun salute. Everyone but Napoleon and the two couples took their seats in the church. Mireille sat just behind the family. The church was filled with fragrant bouquets of flowers, and Mireille breathed in the delicious odor. The sun streamed through the windows, and everything was so bright, Mireille thought this was what Heaven would be like.

And then, to the sound of cheerful organ music, Napoleon, looking splendid in his general's uniform, led Elisa down the aisle to the altar, where Felix was waiting for her, then turned around and led Pauline down the aisle to Victor. Mireille couldn't help but notice the difference between the two couples. Elisa looked radiant, and Felix gazed at her with adoring eyes, as if he were unable to believe that she was his wife at last. Pauline, however, looked unhappy, almost resentful, while Victor's expression was hard to read. Resigned, was the best way Mireille could describe it. Mireille saw Pauline glare at Elisa, hating her for being happy while she was miserable, but also with a certain satisfaction that she'd stolen some of her thunder.

The ceremony was a relatively brief one, then the two couples kissed. Elisa and Felix gave each other a long, lingering kiss which seemed like it would go on forever, while Pauline and Victor gave each other barely a peck. Then they processed back to the entrance of the church, and as they left, Napoleon's soldiers fired off another twenty-one gun salute.

The wedding banquet was magnificent: a feast of cornmeal cakes with cherry preserves and goat cheese, fresh fish from the lake, potatoes, octopus, rabbit, and, best of all, pasta with white truffles. Two huge almond cakes rounded off the meal. The family and guests feasted far into the night on the lantern-lit terrace. Mireille relaxed in the cool breezes from the lake and watched the glowing fireflies and the glint of moonlight on the lake. Briefly she thought of Caragone and the White King, both lost forever beneath its waters, and shuddered. But the peace of the evening helped her relax. Then, as Hortense and Felix played a duet on the harpsichord and violin, she felt totally at rest, lost in the exquisite beauty of the music.

When the duet was over, Hortense played some lively dance tunes. The two couples danced, Pauline and Victor very awkwardly, and Elisa and Felix gracefully, and then the rest of the family and the guests formed into couples for dancing. Mireille found herself dancing with Lucien. She looked towards Christine as if asking permission, but Christine whispered that she was too tired to dance, and she'd be glad to see her husband dance with Mireille. Lucien proved to be a fine dancer, as Mireille had expected he would be.

Mireille went to bed exhausted, but filled with happiness. Shahin was right: this was her family, more than Jacques-Louis David ever would be. Then she shook her head at the unlikeliness that her dear friend Shahin, and her son, could possibly be on the opposite side from her. She decided then that what the White King had said to her had all been a dream, or something she'd experienced in a trance. But she stuck to her resolve to become a better person. She didn't need the White King to make that decision. She slept soundly that night. Ever since her experience with the White King-whatever it had really been-no nightmares about Marat had come to trouble her sleep.

The next morning, Mireille and Elisa greeted each other. Elisa's face glowed with happiness. Mireille pulled her into the small sitting room and asked, "And how did everything go on the wedding night? I hope all was well?"

"Yes, more than well! You're right, I did feel a sharp pain at first, but afterwards... I never thought I'd feel such passion. I've never been happier in my life." The two young women embraced. Then Elisa whispered, "Pauline spent the night in another man's bed, not her husband's. What did I tell you?"

Mireille shook her head, but couldn't help but join Elisa in a laugh.

But at breakfast, her happiness was shattered. A messenger arrived, exhausted, as if he'd been riding a very great distance. Breathlessly, he handed Mireille a letter. "Citoyenne de Remy.." he gasped, "ugent message... for you."

Mireille asked him to take a seat and rest for a while, then she paid him, more than she'd usually pay a messenger, and broke the seal on the letter. She wondered if it was from Blake or Wordsworth. Perhaps they had made an important discovery.

But no, she saw that it came from Russia, and was written in an unknown hand, one that was not used to writing in French. "The Abbess of Montglane is ill, and in terrible danger," it said. "You must come at once."

Mireille's heart leapt to her throat and she turned pale all over as she stared in horror at the letter.

"Mireille, what's the matter?" asked Elisa, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

"It's the Abbess," Mireille gasped. "She's very ill, and in danger in Russia. I must to go her now. I can't waste any time!"

"To Russia?"

"Of course. Remember I was going to go there before, but I got a letter from the Abbess saying she wasn't in as much danger as I feared, and so I decided to go to England and study Newton's papers instead. But now she needs me. I must go to her at once!" She explained to the rest of the family what was going on. They understood, and gave her time to pack her trunks and buy passage in a coach heading to Russia, or at least the first step in that direction.

When all was arranged, Mireille, with tears pouring down her cheeks, took leave of all of them. When she got to Christine, she felt a lump in her throat. "I can only hope you will be safe, and the baby as well." Christine nodded, but Mireille could tell that she knew in her heart it would not be so.

Then she took leave of Lucien. "I am so sorry that things had to turn out as they did," she said.

"And so am I. I think I will always regret that things didn't turn out as I wished, between us. But at least we're friends again, and we got to have an adventure."

"Yes, I'm glad for that. And I can only repeat what I said to Christine. I hope everything will be well with her and the baby."

"And so do I." But she could tell how unlikely he thought it would be, at least in his wife's case.

Finally, Mireille and Elisa embraced. "I wish you all the joy in the world in your marriage," said Mireille.

"Thank you! But that shouldn't be too difficult," said Elisa, her face lit up in a smile. "And I am more happy than I can say, that you have found peace for yourself. That was my greatest wish for you."

"I can never forget what I did, but I will try my best to go on with my life and do as much good as I can," said Mireille. "If there's any chance I can rescue the Abbess, I will do it. I only wish I didn't have to go so far away from you. Who knows when we will see each other again."

"Or where," said Elisa. "Perhaps in Tuscany?" She grinned.

"You know I don't believe that any more than you do. I only hope we will meet again sooner than we think." Then they embraced once more, and Mireille followed Shahin and Charlot to the carriage.


End file.
